The Stars Stare Down, Uncaring
by Smokeybubble
Summary: Teenchesters. Caught off guard, Sam is kidnapped by two men who sell teens for sex. While his family desperately searches for him, Sam is brutally abused by his sick captors and used in unimaginable ways. Hurt/Abused!Sam, Pissed/Protective!Dean and John. WARNING: Dark. Contains graphic physical and sexual abuse of a minor.
1. Chapter 1

Alright, well this is my first fan-fic so be nice! Just a warning, there will probably be explicit rape scenes later on, so if that isn't your thing you shouldn't read it. I'll post other warnings before each chapter. Sorry for my sadistic tendencies :3 Uhh, I'm not good at forewords, so enjoy!

Warnings: Not much in this one... Some language?

* * *

Regaining consciousness was hard, harder than it had any right to be. Making the attempt was like trying to swim through a pit of tar with your hands tied behind your back and iron weights attached to your legs. Every time I tried, I sort of floundered halfway to the surface, then gave up and allowed myself to be dragged back into the murk. In a distant corner of my mind still bearing some semblance of coherency, I understood that I needed to wake up. Something bad had happened, something really bad, and I needed to stop sitting on my ass _right the fuck now. _Unfortunately it took the rest of me a little longer to get the memo. When it finally registered, the tar had thinned to a liquid more consistent to a clingy mud. With a colossal effort, I finally managed to claw my way to the surface, and opened my eyes.

It was a few moments before they actually decided to start working. I stared dully at the ceiling, too exhausted to do anything else. My body felt like it had been pumped full of lead, and my thoughts were strangely disjointed. I couldn't concentrate on anything for more than a few seconds at a time.

A pinching sensation around my right wrist finally gave me enough motivation to tear my gaze from the ceiling and slowly roll my eyes in that direction. The blurry figure of a man was bending over me, fiddling with something above my head. I didn't remember ever seeing him before. His bright blue eyes and straight dark hair were unfamiliar, as was the tanned complexion. Vaguely, I noted a small gold stud sparkling in his right ear.

I stared curiously for a moment, confused but not frightened, wondering who he was. His eyebrows were drawn slightly in concentration, and he was still leaning over me, hands busy with something outside my field of view. I didn't realize what that was until the pinching returned and a smooth band of metal clicked shut around my wrist. _Are those... handcuffs? What the hell?_ I thought slowly, noticing for the first time that my other hand was cuffed as well. I tried to tug on the restraints, but all that happened was a faint ripple along the muscles in my arms, which seemed to have gone on strike. It was as though my brain was cut off from the rest of my body. Just blinking was an effort.

However, the slight movement had caught the man's attention. He glanced over at me, then his mouth split into a grin, the teeth startlingly white against his brown skin. "You're awake," he said. His tone was light, casual. He straightened up and surveyed me, leaning nonchalantly against the wall. "I'm surprised. We dosed you good enough to keep you down for another couple of hours at least." I looked at him, the meaning of his words sluggishly filtering through my thick skull. _Wha... he _drugged _me?_ I finally thought, slightly indignant. I couldn't grasp why this bothered me so much. I had a feeling it wasn't a polite thing you usually did to people, but for the life of me I couldn't remember why, and I turned this over in my head. Vaguely, I realized the drug was doing this to me, but my focus kept slipping away, leaving my thoughts a chaotic, senseless mess. At last I gave up and just eyed the man, who was watching my internal struggle with apparent amusement.

He chuckled slightly at my glazed look and drew a thick wad of fabric from his pocket. "I guess you're still a little out of it," he smirked. "Still," he forced my mouth open and jammed the cloth inside. "We can't risk you actually wakin' up and calling for help. I'd hate to upset the neighbors like that." Another strip was wound around my head, keeping the first firmly in place. He sat back with a satisfied air and looked me up and down. "That's better," he proclaimed, checking the cuffs a final time.

By now, the hazy fog filling my head had thinned minutely, but enough for me to yank feebly at my restraints. The man laughed, and gave me a mocking pat on the head before leaving the room, shutting the door behind him with a snap. I fell back, feeling the clouds flooding back with a vengeance, and reluctantly allowed the drug to drag me back into the waiting blackness.

* * *

The next time I woke, the confused, fuzzy feeling had lessened considerably. Unfortunately, panic had rushed in to take its place. I peered through the darkness the room had been left in- windows either being non-existent or blocked off- and felt my heartbeat start to race. My breaths were coming fast and shallow, and sweat beaded on my palms. I stared wildly around, jerking against my shackled wrists, thinking for an insane moment that maybe I could tear the metal apart like Leoben fucking Conoy and escape. _Calm down Sam! Just chill for a minute and think about this!" _I screamed at myself.

With an effort, I stopped thrashing and lay there, panting. My heart was still desperately trying to bust its way out of my ribcage, as though determined to explode out of my chest in a gory demise. I took a few deep breaths, willing for it to slow, and as I did I realized blood was trickling down my arms from where the metal bands had dug into the skin. I ignored it, tugging once more on the cuffs, but they were clamped tightly around my wrists. Even with my skin slick with blood, I could tell I wouldn't be able to pull my hands free. For a brief moment I wished Dean was here. A smile tugged at my lips. I could almost hear his exasperated voice. "Christ Sammy, next time you get yourself kidnapped, I'm leaving you!"

I mentally shook myself, angry. I couldn't depend on Dean and Dad to get me out of every little situation. I was a Winchester, and dammit I was going to get myself out of whatever shit I had walked into. With that, I pulled myself out of my thoughts and looked around the room, scanning it for something that would help me.

The space was small, maybe nine feet by seven. The only source of illumination was the small chink of light that filtered in from under the single door. By its feeble glow, and a great deal of eye-straining, I could make out no windows adorning the walls. For the first time, now I was calm enough to notice, I saw I was lying on a small, dirty mattress. My legs were cuffed securely to the foot of the bed, and my wrists were chained to each side of the headboard. To my disappointment, it was metal. Carefully, I felt around for anything I could use as a lockpick. The smooth wall yielded nothing, nor did the mattress. My spirits fell. Of all the times I had slept on spring-filled motel beds that jabbed me mercilessly whenever I so much as twitched, now had to be the time I actually needed one.

Moving on for the moment, I tried rubbing my face against my shoulder, hoping I could dislodge the gag. I could hear faint voices coming through the thin wall behind me, I only needed one good shout to draw their attention. All my efforts got me was a growing sense of despair. The gag was tied too tightly and even yelling through the thick cloth produced only a sort of muffled, drawn-out grunt. I tried anyway, shouting at the top of my lungs until my throat was raw.

By the time I collapsed back against the bed, real fear was starting to well up. The people who had taken me had been meticulous. They knew what they were doing. That line of thought brought up a disturbing question, one I had been trying to avoid. Who took me? And for what? The whole thing didn't set off any paranormal warning bells, and sure Dad had made a lot of enemies over the years, but to go so far as to kidnap his son? _Then again, with our luck it wouldn't be that surprising_, I thought wryly. _Not to mention we can deal with some pretty messed up people._

As if summoned by my thoughts, footsteps suddenly sounded outside the door, accompanied by two sets of voices. I tensed, straining to hear what was being said. Before I could make out more than a few meaningless words, the door was flung open. I squinted, eyes burning in the unexpected light, and turned my face away so they could adjust.

"...you imagine how much money he's gonna get us?" someone said. I recognized it as the same dark haired guy I'd seen when I first woke up. A gleeful chuckle followed.

"You don't have to tell me. I'm getting hard just looking at him." The second voice was also male, but deeper, with the heavy rasp of a long-time smoker. I could almost hear the tobacco on his breath.

Loud footfalls crossed the room and a shadow fell over me. I turned and glared up at the man with all the defiance I could muster. The light cast his body in silhouette, and I could see he was broadshoulded, more so than his friend, but no physical wonder by any stretch. I was pretty sure I could take him if I wasn't lashed to a bed. Sideburns ran down each side of his face, enhancing the square line of his jaw. The guy's hair was a short, light blonde, with green eyes currently narrowed with some emotion that looked worryingly like Dean when he was checking out a curvy waitress chick. A shiver ran down my back. His expression was one that you _definitely_ did not want to be the subject of while cuffed to a convenient bed. He noticed my discomfort and a cruel sneer curled his thin lips.

"Now now, Damien," the other man admonished, putting a hand on the guy's arm. "You know we can't go around selling used goods." He smiled, his unnaturally white teeth glinting.

Damien ran his eyes up and down my body. "I suppose you're right," he sighed regretfully, but not before stroking a hand down my leg in a _very_ unwelcome gesture. I snarled through the gag and kicked out at him, but the cuffs around my ankle prevented me from moving more than a few inches. A laugh burst out of Damien's wide chest at my puny attempt. "Looks like we've got ourselves a fighter this time, eh Cole? The customers are gonna be drooling all over him!"

Cole's earring sparkled in the light as he grinned slyly. "We haven't found one like him in years." He put a hand on my chin, turning my head from side to side like he was examining a prize horse. I jerked my head away, but he just absentmindedly tightened his grip. "I'm thinking with a face like this, he'll only be affordable to the wealthier buyers. Wouldn't you agree?"

Damien said something in reply, but I took no notice. My mind was reeling. They were planning on selling me? For what? The way they talked, all the subtle innuendos about their customers had an answer flitting through my head, but I shoved it away. There was no way in hell I was going to let that happen. Instead I concentrated on Dean. I was never gonna hear the end of it for getting kidnapped by _humans_, and not even hunters at that! Dad was gonna be so pissed.

"...start looking around for buyers in the morning." My attention snapped back to the conversation as I caught the end of the sentence. Both men were looking at me like they were wolves and I was a lamb they were about to devour. I repressed a shudder and stared back at them, fury and hatred burning in my gaze. I would not show any weakness to them. Cole smiled patronizingly at my expression, as though I was a child demanding another cookie, or other such crap. I wished my hands were free so I could pound his smirk to a bloody pulp. _See if you smile then,_ I thought viciously.

Cole ignored the waves of rage coming off me, and stroked a hand down my cheek in a parody of affection. "Glare away boy," he murmured. "Your little rebellious streak will be gone soon enough. I'm sure your owner will train you up nice and good." He turned and followed his companion out the room, closing the door and leaving me alone in the dark once again. I wrenched at the cuffs, twisting my hands desperately to slip them through the narrow space, but they were as tight as ever. I was so fucked.

* * *

Yayy, now this is the part where you click that annoying little review button. Right. Now. Or I will come to your house and do unspeakable things.


	2. Chapter 2

Merry late Christmas! I meant to have this up Christmas Eve, then Christmas day, but family just kept getting in the way. Sorry... Oh and I forgot to say, Sam is sixteen or seventeen, and Dean is around twenty one. And thank you to the people who reviewed :3 Anyway, here is chapter two so enjoy!

Disclaimer: I forgot to do that last chapter but still, is it really necessary? I think it's pretty obvious I don't own Supernatural.

Warnings: Language, tiny references of child abuse

* * *

Two days earlier:

"Dean I told you, I had to stay late to finish a project!" I snapped into the phone, the heavy school doors slamming closed behind me as I stepped out into the bright afternoon sun.

"Yeah, well, Dad doesn't care! You were supposed to come help with research when school got out, and now he's pissed!" Dean replied, his voice laced with annoyance.

"Dude, I left you both messages, and what difference is a half an hour gonna make?"

"God Sam, you always do this! It matters, okay? Just, hurry up and get over here."

"Yeah, fine. Whatever," I said shortly, and closed the phone on anything he might have said next. I shoved it back into my pocket and balled my hands into fists, breathing heavily through my nose. _It wasn't like I planned to stay later,_ I growled to myself, stomping down the sidewalk. Although, if I was being honest, I hadn't actually needed to finish a project. But there was no way in hell I was telling Dean, or Dad, that the real reason I stayed late was so my teacher could help me with college prep. Especially not Dad. Whenever I brought up the subject at home, it inevitably ended up collapsing into a violent shouting match that shook the paper thin walls of our current derelict motel. I was sick of trying to explain myself to him. He would never understand how I wanted more from life than learning to draw a perfect devil's trap, or figuring out the best approach to taking down a rampaging djinn. He was so wrapped up in his obsessive hunt for mom's killer that he couldn't even comprehend the fact that I didn't want to live this way. At least he had once had a normal, monster-free life. He had gone home to a real house, eaten something other than hot pockets for breakfast every morning. And Dean had too, if only for a short time. They knew what it was like, but I never had the chance to see for myself, and they just didn't seem to get that.

I continued ranting on to myself, ignoring the obscenely beautiful day. If I had cared to notice, the soft breeze would have brought a smile to my glowering lips as it played through my hair. The hot sunlight would have made me stretch my arms out in lazy enjoyment, letting the golden shafts whisper across my skin and soak into my bones. The sky was a blinding blue, and the bright rays of sun touched each leaf and blade of grass so that they glowed a vivid green. The very air seemed to thrum with life. Even the cracked road and battered brick buildings looked somehow more welcoming than usual. But I was in no mood to appreciate any of this. Instead, I strode briskly away from the school, almost shattering the sidewalk under my feet with waves of frustration as I passed. Maybe if I had been a little more observant, I would have noticed the two sets of eyes keenly watching me from across the street.

* * *

Cole had his feet propped up on the table, drowsily sipping a mug of watery coffee. He grimaced at the taste, and idly turned a page of the newspaper balanced on his lap. The seedy cafe front was almost empty. The uncomfortable metal chairs scattered half-hazardly between rickety tables, the dark foreboding windows, and the faded lettering over the door didn't exactly advertise a friendly atmosphere. The paint on the door was peeling, and the bricks seemed on the verge of crumbling at any given moment. All and all, the entire place looked like it could keel over into a pile of rubble given the slightest excuse.

Cole swirled the dregs of his coffee, scowling. He despised this place. The desolate air that seemed to permeate the air around it always made him jittery. Even the birds didn't deign to investigate for crumbs under the abandoned chairs. Its only advantage was the viewpoint it provided. The high school was a scant two blocks down, making the rundown building the perfect place to discreetly scope out potential inventory.

That was what he called them now, inventory. When he had first entered the business, Cole would refer to the products as people- boys mostly. Girls never seemed to sell as quickly. But over time they stopped being "people" and became things, after the guilt started to be too much.

But he was over such nonsense now. Looking back at that time, he scoffed at his own naivety. Cole readjusted the paper from where it was slipping down his legs, and gave a bored sigh. The rush of kids parading past the cafe had slowed considerably, and at this hour the street was almost entirely vacant. Now, after classes had ended but before the various sports teams and clubs had finished doing whatever it was they did, Cole had nothing to do but count the cracks spiderwebbing across the pavement.

The bell over the cafe door jangled weakly. Damien stepped out into the warm autumn air, his own mug of coffee held loosely in his hand and a gently smoking cigarette dangling from his lips. Cole grinned fondly at the disgruntled expression on his face. They were an unlikely pair to be sure. Damien was loud, impatient, and possessed a crass disposition that often led to a violent fistfight or two. Most people couldn't stand his abrasive personality. Conversely, Cole was quieter, more reserved, and by far the more people-friendly of the two. Usually, he was the one who had to do a spot of fast talking to stop Damien being knifed in a particularly intense bar brawl. He was the calm, collected one, while Damien's fuse was a tad short for his own good. In the bumpy beginnings of their partnership, Damien had even had a small crush on him until Cole firmly told him that he did not play for his team. For all that though, they were fast friends.

Damien pulled out a chair next to Cole and took a sip of his bitter coffee, his nose wrinkling distastefully. Cole glanced at him briefly, then turned back to his newspaper, keeping one eye on the street. Beside him, Damien fidgeted restlessly, drumming his fingers on the tabletop. After a moment he slurped at his coffee loudly, tapping his foot against the ground. God the man was annoying at times. Cole reigned in his irritation with difficulty and did his best to ignore him.

They sat like this for two minutes at most before Damien slammed his cup down on the table, spilling gray coffee everywhere, and declared, "this is pointless! We're not gonna find one today!"

"We have to be patient Damien," Cole chided, turning another page. "You know as well as I do that this is the best place we can be."

Damien snorted derisively. "We've looked through these kids a dozen times, and haven't found one worth selling. Let's just move on already! It's not like there aren't a trillion other kids out there!"

"It'll take too long to find another town," Cole pointed out. "We need one soon. Really soon, or Julien will have both our asses. We haven't made a sale in over a month."

"Julien can go to hell," Damien retorted. "I'm sick of answering to that arrogant bastard."

"I would take a little more care with my words if I were you," Cole warned quietly. "If he thinks you're challenging him..."

"He doesn't scare me! We should've stopped taking his shit years ago!"

Cole just shook his head, tuning the other man out. He was used to Damien's rants about their employer, and knew he wouldn't shut up for at least twenty minutes once he got going. Besides, Cole knew Damien would never seriously try to confront Julien. They needed him, much as Cole hated to admit it. He didn't like the guy any more than Damien, but Julien was invaluable when it came to finding clients. Cole had no idea where he found so many rich, sadistic men, and frankly he didn't care. He supplied the product, and Julien supplied the customer. As long as he was paid, Cole didn't concern himself with what happened to the kids after they were sold. It was strictly business.

"...fine. Whatever." An angry voice broke Cole out of his thoughts, and he looked up. Across the street, a kid no more than sixteen or seventeen was shoving a phone back into his pocket, a peeved expression on his face. Cole's eyes widened ever so slightly. For his normally completely stoic features, it was the equivalent of his jaw hitting the floor. The kid was fucking gorgeous.

Even from this distance, Cole could make out the strong line of his jaw, the lithe movement as he pushed a strand of caramel-colored hair out of his face. The plain shirt he was wearing displayed his tanned, wiry arms, and Cole was willing to bet the rest of him was just as muscular. As he walked by, Cole was mesmerized by how comfortable he seemed in his own skin, so unlike most adolescents his age. Even the scowl darkening his features didn't detract from his looks.

A shark-like grin broke out across Cole's face. He turned to Damien, only to find him still muttering resentfully, mostly Julien's name punctuated by an impressive stream of cussing. Cole rolled his eyes. "Damien," he said exasperated, halting his friend's tirade.

"What?" came the clipped response. Cole jerked his head towards the kid. Damien frowned and scanned the street, freezing when his eyes fell on the boy. Then he smiled, and it was remarkable how many teeth he could show in that one gesture.

"You want this part?" Cole questioned.

Damien stood, smirking. "I'll see you in a couple hours."

Cole watched him disappear down the street after the kid, and took another gulp of lukewarm coffee. The pages of his newspaper rustled as he set them aside and rose to his feet, brushing dust off his jeans. He had preparations to make.

* * *

"I told you to come home right after school Sam!"

_Yeah, my day was good Dad. Thanks for asking,_ I thought sourly, dropping my backpack by the door.

"You were supposed to help us with research!" Dad snapped. He was standing by the crappy motel fridge, a freshly opened beer bottle in his hand, and at the moment his eyes were flashing dangerously.

"I told you, I had to finish up a project!" I said defensively, crossing the small room to sink onto the bed Dean and I shared. "It hasn't even been an hour!"

"We had to start without you!" Dad glared, gesturing to the other bed, where books and papers were strewn messily across the blankets, looking like a hurricane had just swept through them. "We would've made a lot more progress if you had just followed orders!"

"Oh, excuse me for screwing up your precious hunt! I forgot that's the only thing you care about!" I shot back. A slight twinge of regret resonated within me at the hurt look on Dad's face. Our fights almost never escalated this quickly.

"Don't you dare imply that I don't love you or your brother! Everything I do is to keep you boys safe!"

The guilt disappeared, and I laughed bitterly. "Well that's just crap Dad! Keep telling yourself that! But it's pretty damn obvious to me the hunt is all that matters! Finding Mom's killer, right? You care a hell of a lot more about that than you've ever cared about us!"

For a minute I thought he might actually hit me, and I braced myself against his palpable rage. However, before he could answer- or whip out his gun and shoot me- the motel door opened and Dean entered, carrying a couple of takeout bags. The tension in the room struck him like a slap in the face, and he looked from Dad to me, then back again. I could almost see the cogs in his brain churning, trying to think of a stupid joke that would break the awkward, hostile silence. A moment passed before I decided to spare him the trouble by getting up and storming over to the bathroom, tossing a curt, "I'm taking a shower" over my shoulder, and slamming the door behind me.

I glowered at my reflection in the cracked mirror, then stripped off my clothes, hearing a soft murmur of conversation from the other room. Fresh rage exploded in my chest as I turned the shower knobs, waiting for the cascade of water to heat up. _They're probably talking about me,_ I thought savagely. _Dad'll be complaining about how I can't take orders like a good little soldier. How I'll never be good enough for him. And Dean will probably say "he didn't mean it. Give him time to cool down," or some other crap like that, but in the end he'll go along with whatever Dad says. Just like always._

I slipped under the spray of tepid water, trying to imagine that it was washing away all my frustration. But the longer I thought about Dad, the harder I had to clench my fists to keep from punching a hole through the stained tile wall. I stood there for awhile, wrestling my anger back under control. The steady drum of water filled my ears, slowly helping to settle my nerves. When I finally felt like I wouldn't wreck the hotel room if I faced Dad again, I shut the water off and quickly rubbed a scratchy towel over my wet skin.

A cloud of steam billowed out before me as I opened the bathroom door, the towel now wrapped snuggly around my waist. Dad was nowhere to be seen, probably skipped to the bar down the street, but Dean was sitting on a sagging chair in the corner, channel-surfing like a pro on the ancient T.V. set that flickered to static every few seconds. The sound of the door shutting caused his head to jerk around, but I disregarded the reproachful look he gave me and shuffled over to our bed.

"Sammy," he began quietly.

"I don't want to hear it Dean," I interrupted, pulling a set of pajamas from my duffle.

He plowed on despite my warning tone. "I just don't see why you have to fight the man on every little thing!"

I turned my back on him and tugged my t-shirt over my still damp torso. When it became clear I wasn't going to answer, Dean huffed, irked, and went back to flipping between _The Great Escape_ and some old western movie.

The rest of the night passed in strained silence. I ate the chinese takeout Dean had brought, then sat on my bed to start working on my book report on _The Sun Also Rises._

Dean finished his western and stood, stretching luxuriously. I heard him start getting ready for bed and put my book down, fighting to keep my face straight. Dean had no idea, but retribution was about to be delivered. I had snagged some of the capsaicin we had been working with in science, and now it's about to be used for some much needed payback. There was a squeak of the faucet turning on, then the gush of water. I bit my lip, shaking with suppressed laughter.

I didn't have to wait long. After only a few minutes, a strangled "SONUVABITCH!" burst from the bathroom, and Dean lumbered out, spluttering, and brandishing his mouthwash before him like a sword. The look on his face crumbled my fragile control, and I dissolved into howling laughter. "What the hell did you do Sam!" Dean shouted. Or tried to. The effect was somewhat ruined by the tears streaming down his face, which was contorted in pain.

My ribs aching, I gasped out, "revenge... is so..." I paused to giggle. "So sweet!"

Dean's watery glare only set me off again. My laughter followed him as he growled and stomped off to rinse his mouth. By the time he returned I had quieted down some, although the occasional chuckle still broke through now and then.

"What the hell did you put in my mouthwash!" Dean demanded, looming over me threateningly.

I smirked, and instead of replying, said "that was for painting my face like a clown while I was sleeping."

Dean grinned. "One of your finest moments. I should have recorded it when you first looked in the mirror." He tumbled onto the bed next to me and lay down while I put my book report on the floor and switched off the light. My eyes closed, and I was almost asleep when a I heard an almost inaudible "bitch" from beside me.

"Jerk," I whispered back, but smiled all the same.

* * *

It was going on eleven thirty when Cole's phone finally rang. Eagerly, he flipped it open. "Yes?"

"He's staying at the Briar Rose motel," Damien said, never one to waste time with pleasantries. "As far as I can tell there's a father and a brother. But we gotta be careful on the one. The dad looks like an ex-military type."

Cole raised an eyebrow. "Since when has that ever given you pause?" he asked, slightly amused. "Going soft on me already?"

"Shut up," Damien snapped." There's just something about the guy. He looks like the type you wouldn't wanna meet down a dark alley. Or any alley for that matter."

Cole shook his head. "Well it shouldn't be too big of an issue. With the face he's got we'll be able to sell him within a couple of days. Then he'll be long gone and we'll be halfway across the country."

"Alright," Damien grunted. "I'm all done here. You got everything ready?"

"Don't I always? Now get back to the apartment. We've got a fun day tomorrow."

* * *

For anyone wondering, capsaicin is the active ingredient in pepper spray, so it would really suck to swirl it around your mouth. Now you review. Now. Cause there is no point writing a story if no one likes it. And for all you people who read this and don't, shame! Freeloading vultures... I want to know how I did! Tell me if it sucked! Be as brutally honest as you want, I am giving you permission. Although please, feel free to comment nicely :3


	3. Chapter 3

Well, here it is. I will try to post roughly once a week, but my inspiration only lasts for a day or two and then I can't write for awhile. That plus my attention span is that of a gerbil means don't hold me to that.

Alright, being honest I'm not too sure about this chapter. But I took all the time to write it so I figured I might as well post it, right? Thank you to everyone who reviewed and favorited and whatnot! You all warm my twisted heart.

I feel like I should clarify something someone said in a review though. Technically, this is not my first fanfic. I did co-write one before this with my friend, Mrkawaiijake. Its called Playing With Fire and is on his profile if you wanna read it.

Disclaimer: if I owned Supernatural, season 8 would not be as awful as it is (no offense to those who like it, but seriously.)

Warnings: Language as always, some violence, and yes abuse! It's not very explicit here, though in later chapters it will be.

* * *

Captivity, I decided, was boring. There's the initial surge of mind-numbing panic, where fear bubbles up under your diaphragm and all you can think of is that you need to _move,_ but the freaking cuffs won't budge and hyperventilating is looking more and more appealing. Then comes the inevitable escape plans, each more outlandish than the last (one of mine was to possibly get a rat to chew through the handcuffs. In hindsight I blame the lingering effects of the drugs for that one.), but after you've exhausted all your crazy schemes, there's really nothing to do but wait.

I thought about Dean and Dad. They probably noticed I'm gone by now, right? It's been long enough for them to realize something's wrong, though its hard to tell how much time has passed from the lack of lighting in my small prison. I entertained myself for a time by imagining all the ways they could bust in here to rescue me. Most involved explosions.

But past that my attention wandered. For an irrational couple of moments I remembered the book report I hadn't finished and freaked out. Mrs. Stevens was going to skin me alive when I came to class without it. Of course, she'd most likely have to wait for Dad to finish with me to get her turn, and by then there wouldn't be much left to work with. Dad was going to be so pissed that I got myself kidnapped _again_. It wasn't my fault that every crazy, messed up thing, supernatural or otherwise, was drawn to me like I was a friggin' magnet! I guess life just gets its kicks screwing me over.

But I could only rage at the injustice of the world for so long. Eventually I moved on the other things. I tried playing _I Spy_, but that was unsurprisingly short lived. Turns out it's hard to play by yourself when the only things in sight are walls and a dingy bed.

Time is funny in the dark. I had no way to tell how long I had been there, whether it was night or day. I had never considered myself claustrophobic, but the shadows pressing in on every side made me feel as though the walls were closing in. I was desperate to take my mind off the oppressive, unending twilight. Eventually, I ended up naming every supernatural monster I could think of in alphabetical order, along with their strengths and the best way to waste them. I was on shapeshifter when the single door opened, sending a blinding shaft of light across my face.

I looked up, trying to glare and squint at the same time. _Yeah, real intimidating Sam._ I blinked a few times, and finally made out two figures standing in the doorway. The one on the right was Damien, brawny and sullen as ever. It seemed to be his default expression. The man on the left was new to me. He wasn't much to look at. Average height and build, though maybe a little on the lanky side. His hair was blonde like Damien's, but longer, and just a couple shades darker. He was the type of guy you never really _saw. _ Your gaze simply slid over him, because he was so ordinary looking, and as such did not warrant any attention.

Even as I sized him up, he stared openly back, running his eyes critically over my entire body. When he finished he leaned back, a grin passing over his face, and clapped Damien soundly on the shoulder. It didn't escape my notice how Damien tensed almost imperceptible at the gesture.

"You boys have outdone yourselves!" the other man exclaimed, missing Damien's momentary hostile glower. He crossed the room to examine me more closely, reaching out to finger my hair. I pulled back sharply and made a threatening rumble deep in my throat, glaring daggers at the man. He paused, letting his hand drop, and glanced back behind him to where Damien was still leaning apathetically against the doorjamb. "You've got yourself a fighter here."

Damien merely grunted.

"Still," the other man continued thoughtfully. "We can work that to our advantage. Plenty of buyers prefer to break their purchases themselves." His eyes took on a faraway look. "I think I know just who to call." He turned back to Damien. "You should get him cleaned up. He'll need to look his best for-"

Damien cut him off impatiently. "Christ, Julien I know how to do my damn job! Go do your own."

Julien huffed skeptically, but strode out of the room without further comment. Damien shot me a last glance, then followed.

* * *

The next time the door opened, I had just moved on from deciding the worst medieval torture- it was a toss up between the rack and having rats chew their way through your stomach- to deciding which superpower would be best. I was weighing time travel against telekinesis when the hinges squeaked and light flooded the room. I barely had time to raise my head before I felt the cuff on my left hand click open.

Without thinking I lashed out, aiming to where I figured the person's head must be. My fist collided with something soft, and I was rewarded by a yelp and a curse. Sadly, my satisfaction was fleeting. Not a second passed before I was backhanded soundly across the face. To make it worse, whoever it was had a ring on, and it carved a bloody trail over my cheek. Fingers dug painfully into my jaw and jerked my head around until I was staring into Damien's furious eyes, inches from my own. A bruise was already darkening around his right cheekbone.

"If you ever do that again," he breathed, in a frighteningly low voice, "you won't get off with just this." He touched the shallow cut, from where a thin trickle of blood oozed sluggishly. "Plenty of people will still pay for you, damaged or not." He released me, and swiftly cuffed my hands together before unlocking the one tethering my right wrist to the headboard. Seriously, how many pairs of handcuffs did these guys own?

Damien freed my feet as well and yanked me roughly off the bed. I stumbled as my legs took the unexpected weight. Man, how long had I been lying there? More than a day? More than two? I couldn't stop to wonder, because Damien had wrapped an iron hand around my bicep and was dragging me out of the cramped room.

We marched down a dirty hallway, and I took the chance to examine the rest of the apartment. It was pretty much what I had expected. The plaster walls were flaking, so stained with smoke and water that they were barely even white anymore. The floors were made of scuffed wood that screeched in protest at every step. There were only three doors lining the hall. One lead to my tiny cell, but the other two were closed. Damien shoved me over to the door on the left and opened it to reveal a decrepit bathroom. Unceremoniously, I was manhandled over to the ancient shower and the chain linking my hands was looped over a hook hanging from the ceiling.

Damien left me and crossed to a small crank close to the door. As soon as he turned it, I felt the cuffs tighten around my wrists as the hook lifted higher. Soon the chain connecting it to the ceiling was so short I had to stand on the very tips of my toes to relieve the pressure on my wrists. Damien stepped back to admire his work and shot me a predatory leer.

"This is my favorite part," he gloated, disappearing back down the hallway.

The moment he was out of sight I struggled viciously with the cuffs. My precarious position didn't grant me much leverage, meaning that I couldn't jump up to try to unhook my hands. The scabs on my wrists cracked and blood started running down my arms. Before I could try anything else, Damien was back, holding a pair of scissors. My eyes widened and I wrenched furiously at the chains, which only added more gashes to my cut skin.

Tauntingly, Damien opened and closed the scissors, creating a "snip snip" that had me shuddering inwardly. My gaze was riveted on the glittering blades. A malicious little smile appeared on Damien's face as he leisurely approached me, no doubt enjoying the trepidation on mine. Bad decision. As soon as he was within range I kicked out as hard as I could, and caught him solidly between the legs. He collapsed with a yell. I would have grinned triumphantly if that damn gag wasn't still jammed in my mouth. I had to settle with kicking at his head, but he rolled out of the way, barely avoiding the blow.

Painfully it seemed, he pulled himself up using the cracked sink, and stood bent over slightly, holding his groin. He recovered after much groaning, and looked up at me, livid. He snatched up the scissors from where they had been dropped on the floor, and was on me before I could react.

A heavy fist pounded into my ribcage, and I let out a gasp. Another drove into my solar plexus, expelling any remaining air from my lungs and making me gape like a landed fish. While I was distracted trying to convince my lungs to work again, Damien took advantage and cut my shirt away, pricking my skin a couple times with the scissors for good measure. The tattered shirt fell away, leaving me bare chested and hanging limply from the cuffs. Damien paused to grin, taking in my lean abdomen, muscled from years of Dad's arduous training.

"You just keep gettin' better kid." He opened the scissors again, reaching for the waistband of my jeans. _Oh _Hell _no!_ I snarled to myself. His fingers brushed across my hips, and I went wild, thrashing and squirming like a madman. Damien rolled his eyes at my dramatics, but I then managed to throw a knee up, hitting him in his already sensitive family jewels. A strangled sound escaped him, and he scrambled away, hands once again covering the tender area. I fell still, chest heaving, and watched him warily while he nursed himself. A steady stream of expletives spewed from him as he gradually straightened up.

"Fucking kid," he spat at me, all sadistic humor gone. "You're lucky you're gonna get us a shit ton of money." He slammed the scissors down on the sink and stormed out. I had time to let out a breath of relief, then he was back, grasping something I couldn't see in his hand.

I lashed out at him when he stepped towards me, but he batted my foot aside and pressed up against me, trapping my legs between us. We glared at each other, and I realized that we were almost equal in height. He noticed this as well and scowled darkly, apparently not enjoying the fact that he couldn't loom over me. I smirked, but then he lifted up what he had in his hand, and my stomach dropped. A spark reappeared in Damien's eye as I twisted frantically, feeling more blood seep down my wrists. He let me struggle for a few moments, then reached up and slid the needle into my arm.

Lethargy spread through my veins as he depressed the plunger. My movements slowed, and it didn't take long until I slumped against the cuffs, my muscles completely unresponsive.

Damien watched with blatant smugness, baring his teeth in a shameless leer when I finally went limp, eyes glazed. Only then did he cup my cheek in his huge hand, giving me a derisive sneer when I made no attempt to pull away.

He picked up the scissors and cut away my jeans, throwing them aside. By now I was clad only in my boxers, shivering slightly in the cool air. He halted, lasciviously enjoying the view. God, the guy needed a girlfriend. Or boyfriend. Whatever. Point was, if he could only get someone's clothes off was when they were tied up, he was doing something wrong. I giggled at the thought. I was so distracted I hardly noticed the gentle tugging at my hips. I was brought sharply back to the present when my boxers were ripped away, and I was left hanging completely naked, unable to cover myself from Damien's probing inspection.

The drug hadn't dimmed my wits as profoundly as last time. While my mind was undeniably fuzzy, I was still aware enough to know what was happening. Disgust and horror welled up inside me. I tried weakly to, what? Escape? Lash out? It didn't matter. It failed either way.

Damien hadn't stopped grinning the entire time. It was a wolfish smile, filled with far too many teeth. It impossibly widened further as he leaned over and, with a squeak of rusty pipes, turned the shower on. A frigid blast of water sprayed over me , immediately raising goosebumps on my skin and making me shiver harder than ever. Had I been a little more coherent I would have yelped in surprise.

Then, to my complete revulsion, Damien pulled out a bar of soap. _You have got to be fucking kidding me_. This guy _really_ need a boyfriend. Girlfriend. Whatever. I just hoped whoever he could convince to date him was into the whole bdsm thing. Not that it mattered right now. With whatever he had injected me with making me docile as a sheep, I could only stand helplessly while he ran his hands up and down my skin. And he was uncomfortably thorough.

He started at my arms, then quickly moved to my shoulders, tracing the contours of my collarbone and the smooth curve of my neck. He lingered over the hard muscle ridging my abdomen, trailed a hand down the knobs of my spine. His fingers danced patterns across my shoulder blades and ribs. I could deal with it all, until he moved past my jutting hip bones to the area between my thighs.

I couldn't hold back the whimper that slipped out from behind the gag as he caressed me, which only seemed to encourage him. He took an excruciatingly long time to move the rest of my legs, savoring the occasional pathetic whine he induced, until he wasn't even pretending to wash me and just touched me with greedy, lustful fingers. I moaned pitifully, feebly shrinking away from him, and at last he resumed scrubbing down the rest of my body.

After the last sudsy lines were sluiced away, swirling lazily in the dirty pool at my feet before reluctantly vanishing into the spotted drain, Damien washed my hair, running his hands through my thick locks. He finally shut the water off, briskly rubbing me down with a scratchy towel that felt more like wire than cloth and turned my skin bright pink.

"I hate to cover this up," Damien mused, cupping a hand over my bare groin wistfully, ignoring my muffled sounds of protest. He relented, taking his hand away thank God, and left to fetch an old pair of gray sweatpants. My legs were too heavy for me to lift, so he had to help me into them, tugging them over my narrow waist.

"Now," Damien said, businesslike. "I'm going to take out your gag, and you're not going to make one sound, right?" A gun had somehow appeared in his hand, pointing carelessly at my chest to emphasize his words. I nodded, eyeing it charily. The damp cloth was removed, leaving lines of chafed skin along both my cheeks. I opened and closed my mouth, running my tongue along my teeth to rid them of the foul taste.

A cup of water was suddenly shoved in my face. I flinched, and Damien sighed exasperatedly. "Would you just drink?" he snapped. "I've got things to do."

He hadn't released my hands from where they were suspended above me, so I had to tilt my head back while he placed the cup against my lips. The water flowed deliciously down my dusty throat, better than any fancy drink. I hadn't realized how thirsty I was until now. I couldn't even remember the last time I'd had some water, though it must have been before they'd nabbed me. How long ago was that? Shouldn't Dad and Dean have discovered I was missing? What was taking them so long to find me? I pushed those niggling doubts aside angrily. They _would_ come. They wouldn't just abandon me.

Damien set the cup down and produced a bit of bread from somewhere. I ate it obediently, even though it was hard and stale. I didn't have enough energy to rebel. I swallowed the last crumbs, and Damien took out a camera of all things. He snapped a couple of shots, turning my head this way and that for the best angle. The harsh flashes of light made my eyes ache. The drug still pumping through me, blurring my vision, didn't help much either.

While I was blinking away the spots, Damien pulled out another gag and forced the material into my mouth, securing it like last time with another strip wrapped around my head. Once he was done he unhooked my hands from the ceiling and lead me from the room.

Back down the same hallway, Damien half-carrying me when my legs decided that being made of marshmallow would be more fun. He dumped me gracelessly on my narrow bed, my limbs flopping everywhere, and I watched through half-lidded eyes as he rechained me to the frame, letting out little grunts of annoyance at my uncooperative, deadweight appendages. _Yeah,_ I thought hazily. _That's what you get. Karma's a bitch, dickwad._

Damien must have really been in a hurry because as soon as the last cuff snapped shut around my ankle he wasted no time in hastening out the door. I was too tired to wonder why. Sleep was beckoning me, its call amplified by the drug. I let my eyelids drift closed.

My dreams were dark and confused. Damien's hands were on me again, groping and invasive. I cried out for him to stop, yet when I looked up into his face it was not Damien above me, but Dean.

"Shh little brother, it's okay," he whispered to me. "I'll always protect you." He squeezed my groin painfully, smiling calmly down at me as I writhed and whimpered beneath him.

I woke with a gasp and a strangled yell, cold sweat beading my clammy skin. The suffocating darkness pressed in heavily all around me. A sob welled up in my throat, and for the first time I allowed the reality of the situation to set in. The shadows around me grew, if possible, even blacker. I felt the sinister ghost of my dream circling round me, and every fiber of my being ached for my brother. A lone tear crept out from the corner of my eye, clinging to the lashes for the briefest of moments before tracking a salty line across my temple and falling gently to the grimy pillow.

* * *

Remember, it's not worth writing if nobody enjoys it, so review! I still don't know if I like how this chapter turned out, so I would appreciate any feedback you guys wanna give :3


	4. Chapter 4

Ahh, sorry it was a little late. School's started again (sob) so I lied when I said once a week. I will do my very best to meet that, but my teachers seem to think that teenagers live to do homework, so I won't have as much time to write as they keep burying me in it.

Sam kicked me out of the bed for the last chapter. Apparently he thought the shower part was a bit much, and I had to explain to him that that was just the tiny beginning of the abuse, and I had to threaten him before he grudgingly let me back in. Sam is my rainbow unicorn pillow pet, for anyone wondering. And yes, I do have a rainbow unicorn pillow pet named Sam Winchester and yes, I realize I have a problem that most likely should be addressed with therapy.

Thanks to everyone who favorited and reviewed! You all are such wonderful people!

Disclaimer: YES I own them. That's obviously why I sleep with a unicorn instead of the real thing.

Warning: Language, some violence, and possibly gory imagery? I don't really know what counts so I'll say it to be safe.

* * *

Three days. Three days of frantic worrying, of endless pacing that had him surprised there wasn't a track worn in the motel carpet. Three days of sleepless nights, long hours dragging by, his senses acutely aware that there was no warm body lying next to him on the bed. Three days since Sam had disappeared, and for Dean, they had been three days straight from hell.

He had lost track of the number of times he had called Sam's phone, only for it to go straight to voicemail. Lost track of the number of leads they had tracked down, only for each one to dead-end. The amount of coffee he had drunk those three days was verging on sickening.

That first night, when Sam hadn't come home, hadn't raised any undue alarm. Dean was concerned, yes, and he hadn't noticed Sam being any moodier than usual, but the kid was an expert at hiding his feelings if he really wanted to. Dean had chalked up his absence to a lingering resentment towards John from the fight the night before. It wasn't the first time he had stayed out late, brooding. Both Dean and John had called him of course, but concluded that he was just blowing them off. Needless to say, John had been furious at his son's recalcitrance.

Even so, Dean couldn't shake the uneasy suspicion that it was something more than spite on Sam's part. This had only worsened throughout the night, finally confirmed when he woke up the next morning to find Sam's side of the bed cold and conspicuously vacant. The fear Dean had felt then, staring at the distinctly unrumpled sheets, had lodged deep in his bones and hadn't left since. Even now, it lurked quietly in the back of his mind, waiting for him to drop his guard so it could overwhelm him like the first moment he realized Sam was missing.

It would happen when he least expected it. One minute he would be thanking Sam's teacher for his assistance- which was useless as always. Apparently Sam had disappeared after school let out- and the next he would be doubled over, clutching the desk for support as waves of terror crashed over him, his heart stuttering in his chest and his breaths coming in short, painful gasps.

When the episode finally passed, he would be left coated in a thin sheen of clammy sweat while his hands trembled uncontrollably.

If he seemed to be losing his mind, by contrast John had slipped into "super-powered hunter" mode. The intensity with which he threw himself into their search almost frightened Dean. He had talked to so many people, checked so many leads it was a miracle he hadn't passed out from sheer exhaustion.

His tempter had also shortened dramatically, probably due to a combination of sleep deprivation, anxiety, and the copious amounts of liquor he was now consuming. Much as Dean pretended otherwise, it was hard to ignore the staggering amount John was drinking daily. The beer cans and whiskey bottles he had gone through was reaching heights that made Dean seriously concerned for the man's liver.

Even more surprising was the fact that John wasn't a drunken mess. On the contrary, Dean didn't think John had ever been more focused. The closest Dean had seen his father like this, were those half-remembered days in the weeks after the fire that killed Mary. Dean had a sneaking feeling that if they didn't find Sam soon it would kill them both.

Dean ran his hands through his short hair and glanced again at the clock hanging on the wall. He had just gotten back to the motel after searching Sam's school from top to bottom for any signs of demon, ghost, shapeshifter, or otherwise supernatural activity, and had come up with a steaming pile of squat. He was sitting on his bed, waiting for John to get back from the police station, with nothing to distract him from his thoughts. And they were anything but pleasant.

Since the morning Sam vanished, he had been unable to stop the persistent stream of scenarios that sprang up at any mention of his absent brother. That he had run away Dean discarded almost immediately. The fight with John hadn't been too upsetting by their standards. It wouldn't drive him to leave. They had been through worse hundreds of times, and Sam always returned by nightfall, no matter how violent the argument. But if he hadn't left willingly, the alternatives were far worse.

The number of things that could have taken Sam was daunting, and none of them good. The image of a cloud of ebony smoke cramming itself down Sam's throat flashed in front of his eyes. Sam's mouth was stretched wide in a scream, and when the last of the smoke vanished inside him, he smiled wickedly, opening eyes black as- _No!_ Angrily, Dean shoved the horrifying picture out of his mind. That would _not_ happen to his little brother, not while he was around. He would die before he let anything happen to Sam, and he was getting him back alive, no matter what.

The tinny sound of Deep Purple echoed through the otherwise soundless room. Morbid thoughts discarded, Dean dove across the bed to where his jacket was lying, crumpled on the sheets where he had tossed it. There were a couple moments of inelegant scrambling, until he finally managed to extricate his phone, hope bursting inside him. But it wasn't Sam's name flashing up at him. His disappointment was tangible as he opened it and put it to his ear. "Did the police have anything?"

"No," came John's curt response. Dean's heart sank. "But I might have found someone who does."

Dean sat bolt upright. "Are you sure? What happened?"

"Just get over to the police station. I'll explain when you get here."

A click and a droning buzz ended the conversation before Dean could answer. He stared at the phone, and for the first time he understood how Sam felt. As much as he admired John, the way he treated his son's, demanding unquestioning obedience, was something that had never bothered him before. He knew it was necessary, that in their line of work there was no time for explanations, when every second of hesitation could signal death, but now? When it was his little brother in danger and John might know what had happened?

The unfamiliar rebellion confused Dean. He was the good son, and he wasn't sure he liked the new feelings provoked within him. But, as he told himself, brooding was Sam's style, not his.

So with the ease born of practice, he swept his misgivings aside, snatched up his jacket, and hurried out the door. After all, he had a pain-in-the-ass little brother to save.

* * *

John snapped the phone shut and turned to face the short blond woman standing patiently by the front desk of the police station.

"Ms. Lewis?" he called, bringing her attention around to focus on him. "I told my partner to come over. Do you think you could wait until he gets here before you tell me the full story?"

She smiled at him, dimples standing out on her cheeks. "Of course Agent Thompson. Anything I can do to help."

"Thank you. I apologise for the inconvenience," John said gruffly, effortlessly transitioning into his government demeanor.

She winked at him, and he could have sworn that her gaze travelled down his body before lowering herself into one of the hard backed chairs lining the reception area. _Was I just... Checked out?_ John thought, flustered. He hadn't partaken of that certain activity in years, since Mary died. Ms. Lewis was certainly pretty, but just considering it brought back the painful memories of his wife, effectively killing any attraction he held towards the woman. Even the brief thought of Mary was like pouring salt on an already festering wound. So he chose to brush off the suggestive glances she sent him, and leaned up against the wall, listening for the unmistakable growl of the Impala.

It was an incredible stroke of luck that he had stumbled across the petite woman. He had gone to the police station, doubtful that they could help but desperate enough to try. As he'd suspected, the venture had been fruitless, but Ms. Lewis, who had come down to report a case of arson near her house, had overheard him describing Sam and interjected, remembering a similar boy passing by her store the day he vanished. When John showed her a picture kept in his wallet, of his two boys grinning idiotically at the camera, lounging on the hood of the Impala, she confirmed that it had indeed been Sam.

Bursting with excitement at their first solid lead, John had restrained himself from interrogating her there and then, well aware that Dean would tear him a new one if he investigated without him. It took more self-control than he would have guessed he had to call Dean and force himself to be patient.

By the time the Impala swung, gleaming and black, into the parking space next to John's massive truck, he was ready to tear his hair out from the mixture of pent-up stress at the delay, and discomfort owing to the dewy eyes Ms. Lewis kept directing at him.

Dean leapt out of the car, wind whipping desiccating twigs and leaves into his face. He took the steps up to the station three at a time and wrenched the door open, wind swirling around the room until he shut it firmly behind him.

"Agent Morris," John said quickly, motioning for Dean to join him. "This is Jennifer Lewis. She recalls seeing Sam the day he disappeared." John pretended not to notice the way Dean flinched. By unspoken agreement, both Winchesters had avoided using words like "death", "kidnapped", or others similar, as though voicing them would make it real, as cliché as that was.

Dean recovered hastily and held out his hand for the woman to shake. She took it, eyebrows furrowed.

"Aren't you a little young for the FBI?" she asked curiously.

"Ah, thank you for the compliment," he answered, deftly sidestepping the question.

"Ms. Lewis," John stepped in, cutting her off as she opened her mouth to inquire further. "Could you tell us when and where you saw Sam?"

"Well, it couldn't have been later than four o'clock," she began, crossing her legs, her skirt somehow hitching up a couple of inches with the action, revealing a swathe of creamy thigh. She peeked up at John through her lashes, checking his response, and combed fingers through her thick hair suggestively.

"I was just going over some paperwork when I heard arguing from outside. That boy and another man were discussing something- I don't know what. But I didn't get much past that. I had to grab something from the other room, and by the time I came back both of them were gone."

"Do you remember what the other man looked like?" John asked sharply.

She shifted, the skirt losing yet more length, and smiled at him with dazzling white teeth. "I'm sorry, I don't. But I have something better," she almost purred. "We keep camera's around the shop, in case of a robbery. We aren't situated in a very nice part of town, and it's not uncommon. But I'm sure I could give you a copy of our tapes."

"That'd be great!" Dean exclaimed, face lighting up. She deigned him with a dismissive look before addressing John in a provocative voice.

"You could come over to my office so I could give them to you. It's really not far..."

John had no doubt that the last thing on her mind was giving him the surveillance tapes. "Umm, actually we have other business we need to attend to," he lied promptly, wishing she would stop undressing him with her eyes in such an aggressive manner. And where had the woman's skirt gone? 'Cause there was no way in hell that miniscule strip of fabric across her hips classified as a _belt_ let alone a full-on piece of clothing.

He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Maybe it would just be easier for you to email them to us?"

She pushed her lips out in a pout. "Are you sure? We can make it quick."

"Yes, I'm sorry, but we really should get going," John rushed, doing his best to ignore Dean's expression. He handed her his card with him email scrawled on the back. Her fingers lingered on his hand longer than necessary as she accepted it.

"Well if you ever need my statement or something," she took a piece of paper from her purse and wrote down a number before standing on tiptoe to tuck it into his shirt pocket. "Feel free to call me. I'd love to help in any way I can." John had a feeling the help she was offering didn't have much to do with the case.

"Ah, right. I'll do that," he said, backpedaling hastily to make her hand drop from where it was resting on his chest. She gave him one last seductive look and sashayed out the door, not even bothering to acknowledge Dean as she left.

"Excuse me while I burn my eyes out," Dean gagged as soon as she was gone.

"Watch your tongue boy!" John barked, trying to hide his reddening face.

Dean merely snorted. "Come on Rhett. Lets get you out of here before Miss Scarlett comes back and tries to rip your clothes off again."

* * *

"Well that was fast," John commented, clicking on the email.

"Whoa, wait!" Dean cried in a mock serious tone. "Make sure those are from the surveillance camera's. 'Cause if those are a naughty little gift from her to you, I'd rather not be in the room when you watch 'em." John shot him a glare that was met by an cheeky grin. Fortunately for Dean, his father had more pressing matters than drilling some discipline into his son's smart mouth.

He turned back to the email, and Dean crowded close in behind to see, all joking forgotten.

The old computer was slow to load. Dean cursed the small bar at the bottom of the screen, where the numbers _27% loaded_ quivered tauntingly. He looked away, breathing harder than necessary, and fidgeting restlessly from foot to foot. He could imagine that damned saying "a watched pot never boils" laughing its ass off at him. He kept his gaze away from the screen for an excruciating couple of seconds until he couldn't stand it any longer and checked the display.

_32% loaded._

It took a disproportionate amount of effort not to put his fist through the peeling wallpaper.

An apprehensive stillness settled over the room. John was staring unblinkingly at the screen, his expression unreadable. Dean was finding it hard just to breathe. Now that the moment was so close, he suddenly found he wasn't sure if he wanted to know what was on the video. What if Sam was dead, or worse?

His imagination jumped into overdrive, and he found himself looking on, tormented by the sight of a werewolf slashing a claw across Sam's stomach, easily shredding the skin and muscle, spilling glistening entrails all over the-

"Dean," A hand waved in front of his face. "You alright?"

Dean blinked, the macabre image slow to fade. "Huh?"

"Are you alright?" John repeated, a look of concern creeping into his eyes.

"Wha- yeah, I'm fine!" Dean dismissed the question impatiently. No way was he gonna break down in front of his father. To his gratification, the computer let out a shrill beep, cutting short the disbelieving look John sent him.

Both men leaned closer to the screen as a picture formed. It was a simple shot of the sidewalk fronting the store, canted slightly to the left so that a wedge of street was visible, cutting diagonally across the top edge of the image. At the far left was a sliver of what appeared to be an alley running along the side of the building. The time at the bottom right read "8:15 a.m."

"She said it was just before four." Dean's voice came out raspy, and harsher than he intended. John tapped the fast forward button, and an agonizing minute passed while people scurried jerkily back and forth across the screen.

At "3:42 p.m." John pressed play, and without intending to, Dean held his breath. A car rumbled by on the slice of road, the engine a quiet, high-pitched whine on the video. Seconds ticked by, the shopfront remaining empty, and Dean was about ready to throw the computer across the room from the damn suspense, when a figure with long, brown hair stepped into view from the right side of the screen. Dean stiffened, and gripped the back of John's chair, drinking in the sight of his little brother.

Sam's head was down, bangs flopping into his eyes as usual, and his hands were hooked onto the straps of his backpack. Another man entered the shot, walking in the opposite direction. Dean studied him carefully, taking in the short, dirty blond hair, and arm sizes that boasted of far too many nights spent alone in the gym.

As Sam and the man passed, their shoulders knocked together hard, causing them both to stagger sideways to regain their balance. Dean's eyes narrowed. Something about the action seemed staged. The wannabe Schwarzenegger whirled on Sam and yelled at him to watch where he was going. At least, Dean assumed that's what he said. The cheap camera was too far away to pick up the fast-growing argument.

Sam shrugged apologetically, moth moving soundlessly, and turned away. But Schwarzenegger was only getting started. He grabbed ahold of Sam's arm, spinning the boy back to face him. A hard look came into Sam's eyes, one that clearly said "get-your-hand-off-me-right-now-or-I'll-break-it-off".

What Sam obviously failed to notice was a third man that materialized suddenly from the shadows of the alley. Dean could faintly make out an earring glittering from under a mess of dark hair.

Schwarzenegger shouted something angrily into Sam's face, keeping his attention firmly away from the guy now strolling with forced disinterest towards their little spat. Sam's back was towards Earring, so he missed the small nod he gave to Schwarzenegger before raising his arm and plunging a needle into Sam's neck.

With reflexes Dean was proud of, Sam whipped around, tearing the needle out of Earring grasp. His hand jumped to the spot and yanked it out reflexively, but Dean could tell it was already too late. His legs had started to wobble, and as he tried to stumble away they gave out completely, sending him crashing to hands and knees.

Schwarzenegger darted forward and swiftly hoisted Sam to his feet, slinging an arm around his slim waist to support the boy as he sagged bonelessly against him. Sam pushed at him woozily, but the strength had drained from his movements. Earring produced another needle from his pocket, and within seconds of receiving the second injection, Sam's eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped unconscious into Schwarzenegger's arms.

In one swift motion, he was tossed over the man's broad shoulder and all three of them vanished into the gloom of the alley. It was pulled off so quickly that the entire thing had taken less than two minutes.

Dean's hands were clenched so tightly on the back of John's chair that pins shot through his bloodless fingers as he forced them to uncurl. A roaring filled his ears, blocking out all other sounds. A red mist had settled over the room. He didn't know who had taken his little brother, or why, but when he tracked them down he was going to make them appreciate the word suffering on a whole new level. The look of terror on Sam's face just before he passed out was seared into his brain.

He stole a look at John, and the set of his face made Dean think that if the older man found them first, the kidnappers wouldn't survive long enough for Dean to get his turn.

* * *

Oh you Winchesters... Now is the part where I lecture you about reviewing. I'll even let you guys in on a secret; reviews make people write faster. Ya. Crazy right? 'Cause in our minds this is how it works: Reviews= people like story, people like story= good writing, good writing= want to continue writing to please people. Moral of the story? Review. Cause I can tell you, I know how many people have looked at my story, and you people don't review! Freeloading vultures! I bet you people kick puppies too... Alright, alright I'm done ranting.


	5. Chapter 5

Wow, I can't believe this is chapter five already! I'm sorry if the story is moving a little slow... Plot and all. But the abuse is coming, I promise!

As always, for all you wonderful people who favorited, followed, and reviewed, I thank you for not being puppy kickers (except for Zed's Dead, who only kicks them on Thursdays). You all are the reason my self-esteem is not crying on the floor. For the people who reviewed and I didn't respond, this is not because I don't like you, but because I'm socially awkward and usually don't know what to say. I hope it didn't bother anyone...

For this chapter, let me just say that while I think Sam is quite an attractive guy, I don't think of him in the creepy way that these people do. Just to make that clear.

Disclaimer: I do own Sam Winchester. In unicorn pillow pet form. Sadly, nothing else.

Warnings: Language (duh), umm small mentions of molestation. Oh, a little violence.

* * *

"Well, well well!" Footsteps thumped on the floor. They halted next to me, and I could feel the heat of their owner's gaze burning into my skin. "I thought you might have been exaggerating, Cole. I'm glad to see you weren't."

I didn't move, not even a twitch. I was used to this by now. A man would come, dripping with expectant enthusiasm, to poke and prod and examine me like a prize horse. They felt my arms, examined my teeth, and worst of all, inspected the area between my thighs. Generally, Cole would be with them, pointing out my unique eyes, or the toned quality of my abdomen. From what I could tell, Cole was the salesman of the duo, while Damien was the brawn that kept the kids from making a run for it. Julien, or whatever his name was, hadn't reappeared since that brief first encounter.

"When did you acquire him?" The voice asked. I cracked an eye open, and a man's face swam into view. He was leaning over me, scrutinizing the firm planes of my chest. I had been given no shirt since Damien sliced mine up with scissors, the dick. With the autumn fast fading to winter, it made the nights bitterly cold. I closed my eye.

Cole's muffled reply sounded like a pillow had been pressed over his mouth, so distorted I couldn't make it out. But this was normal now. These days I lived in a perpetual half-dream. When the first man had come, cocky and expectant, and tried to open my eyes himself to inspect them, I had broken his nose with my forehead. Damien had come close to fracturing all my ribs in his subsequent rage, and Cole decided it would be better to drug me when a prospective customer came in. After I pulled a nail from the wall behind me, picked the cuffs, and had a near escape through the living room window, only stopped in the nick of time by a furious Damien, they had come to the conclusion that I would be easier to handle if I was drugged all the time. I had so many puncture marks in my arm that I felt like a heroin addict.

"And how submissive did you say he was?" Ah, my hearing was back. It was beginning to get quite irritating, fading in and out like that.

"Well, we have him sedated for the moment..." Cole's reply ebbed away as he spoke. Damn it. Maybe my ears were bipolar.

A hand stroked my hair, tangling in the soft strands, encouraging me to drowsily lift an eyelid. Two startlingly blue irises met my unfocused hazel one. I peered up at them, watching as they changed from a pure sky cerulean to a navy so dark it was almost black. They reminded me of a cave buried deep within the ocean, where the water was so cold not even algae dared grow there. _Huh,_ I thought, letting my eye drift shut. _Maybe it's the drugs._

His hand combed through my scalp, then left it to trace a line down my neck. Even drugged to the gills, my skin crawled at the touch. I mustered what energy I could gather and weakly rolled my head away, a whine of protest working its way past my gag, but the questing fingers followed me relentlessly.

The man spoke again, and I could hear the smile behind his words, although they melted away before I could make sense of them. His hand returned to my hair, brushing out the fine locks, and if I concentrated I could almost imagine it was Dean, comforting me like he had uncountable times in the past.

But it was a fragile illusion. Dean's palms were strong and callused, more often than not smudged with gunpowder or motor oil. These were softer, the fingers longer and more slender. Their touch was not one of affection, but of possession.

These differences, so painfully obvious, made longing for my brother sing through my drugged veins. The absence of his steady presence hurt me more than I would admit. I missed his smile, his laugh. I missed the stupid jokes he always made, and the simple strength that I drew from him. More than once, I convinced myself I heard his angry voice out in the hallway, but it always turned out to be an empty dream. I couldn't fathom what was taking him so long to find me. Wasn't he worried? What if he didn't want me back at all?

_Of course he wants me back,_ my rational side argued. _He _will _come. I just have to be patient._ But as the days slipped by, I had to admit it was getting harder and harder to hold onto hope.

"...I do believe we can work out a deal. What are you asking in terms of price?"

The question didn't register at first. I heard it, not really following the conversation. Then comprehension slammed down and I jerked towards the speaker, eyes snapping open. Adrenaline flooded me, momentarily subduing the effects of the drug, and I wrenched with renewed vigor at the ever-present cuffs. No way in _hell _was some pervert gonna buy me!

But my strength was already waning, and I was sinking unwillingly back onto the mattress. My gaze darted from the man still standing over me, to Cole at the foot of the bed, a shrewd expression on the latter's face.

My surge of lucidity lasted only long enough for me to see the glint of anticipation in the stranger's eye as he watched me give a final tug at my restraints, and for Cole to say, "well, what we feel is most reasonable, considering his..." Then the drug swarmed over me with a vengeance. I struggled to stay conscious, but I must have blacked out, because the next time I dragged my eyelids open, Cole was standing alone in my cell, pocketing a sizeable wad of bills. _Fuck. That can't be good._

He looked up, as if sensing my sudden despair, and met my bleary gaze. I experienced an odd sense of dejá vu as he smiled at me, a satisfied tinge to the gesture. It could have been the first time I had awoken in this bed, disoriented and confused, with Cole clicking the last handcuff closed. Perhaps he felt it too, because he came over and stared down at me, an unreadable shadow passing over his features. It might have been uncertainty, but he was gone before I could be sure.

The door hadn't been closed ten seconds when it flew open again, admitting an exuberant Damien, who bounded across the threshold grinning from ear to ear.

"Well, if it isn't our latest sale!" he bayed, practically frolicking with delight. "You should've seen the offers we were gettin' for you!" He laughed and fixed me with a mock thoughtful look, one finger tapping his nose and one eye squinted shut. "I knew you'd be in high demand. Seems like everyone's dying to have a turn with you. 'Course, with a body like that it's not surprising." He pressed a palm against my exposed stomach as though to prove his point. "I gotta say though, I'm gonna miss you. It's a damn shame I never got to try you out myself."

My handcuffs tinkled as they unlocked. Damien pocketed the keys and pulled me, unresisting, into a sitting position.

"Mmm, yeah, a damn shame," he repeated, mostly to himself, nuzzling my neck when I folded bonelessly against him. "I bet you would've been unbelievable in bed." I elbowed weakly at his ribs, repulsed by his touch and his words, but he easily turned it aside and chained my hands together.

I was in no condition to stand on my own, let alone walk, and this quickly became evident as Damien pulled me to my feet. Screw limbs of lead, it felt like I didn't have any limbs at all. The dusty floor rushed up to meet me,and the only things that prevented me from a glorious face-plant were Damien's hands catching my shoulders at the last second. He steadied me, but the moment he let go, my knees buckled and he was forced to dive forward again, supporting me with an arm around my waist.

He grumbled something about Cole and dosages, before bending and putting an arm under my legs. My stomach lurched nauseatingly, the walls tumbling around me as Damien scooped me into his arms, bridal-style. He smirked at me, cuddled against his broad chest with my head tucked snuggly under his collarbone, but I was too busy trying not to throw up to care. The shadows encroaching on the corners of my vision seized their chance. While I was distracted by my rebellious innards, they rose up like a black wave and swept me away, as Damien carried me from the room.

* * *

"...Is he ready yet? Weissman is itching to go, and his complaining is getting on my nerves." Cole sounded ansty.

"He's a touchy one, ain't he?"

Wherever I was, it was dark. Hard ridges pressed against my side. Blindly, I reached out, and smooth wooden slats met my fingers. As my eyes adjusted, I made out slim bars of weak light filtering in through numerous cracks above me. _What?_ My fuddled mind flailed for an unnecessary amount of time before I could put two and two together. It was a crate. They had put me in a wooden crate.

My legs were curled up to fit, and it was so narrow I couldn't wiggle around to lie on my back. My cuffed hands were bent uncomfortably in front of me, almost like a parody of prayer.

I felt someone kick the side. "I think we got everything. Let's do this quick before anyone wakes up and wonders what the hell we're doing."

The crate shifted, and grunts of exertion came from both ends.

"Damn, he's heavy for being so freaking skinny," Damien joked. Cole uttered an indistinct noise of agreement, and I was lifted into the air. Though I couldn't see beyond the wood in front of my face, I still felt vertigo rise within me at the sudden repositioning.

As if that wasn't enough, Damien and Cole chose that moment to take a staggering lurch forwards. Oh God. I screwed my eyes shut, breathing deeply through my mouth, but the wobbly rhythm the two established wasn't helping. In fact, it was doing a stellar job to convince my guts that they would be much happier painted on the side of the crate.

I was soothing them back into place when my head dipped alarmingly towards the floor. I thought one of the men must have dropped me before I realized we must be on a staircase.

This was confirmed when the crate jolted wildly, followed quickly by a bang and a curse from my feet.

"Ah, fuck!"

"Damien, _shut up!_ Do you _want_ people to come see what's happening?"

"I slipped on the step! What prick leaves an opened condom lying around? I could have broken my neck!"

"At least if you were dead you'd be quiet for once! I'm sure your corpse wouldn't make as much noise and wake up the entire building!"

"You try tripping over a used condom while carrying-"

"Would you just shut it? We can do this later!"

The whispered argument had me begging that someone had heard. Surely these walls weren't thick enough to block out their hushed voices. But no one came. I should have expected as much. When had God ever paid attention to my prayers?

We moved off, down yet another flight of stairs, then a hallway, and finally the cool smells of fresh air washed over me for the first time in days.

The pale light that shuttered through the crate slats was that of early morning. Faint cries of birds echoed from far away, and the rare hum of a passing car seemed muted in the hushed silence. It was the hour on the cusp of time, not quite night, but not yet day either. The world was holding its breath, waiting for the sun to come and chase away the last shadows from the corners of the earth. Waiting for the stars to fade out one by one, relinquishing their position as the silent, twinkling sentinels of the sky for another day. I could just make out the purple clouds through a slim crack, gradually brightening to a light cream shot through with pink.

To me it was beautiful, precious. To others, it was the perfect time for nefarious business.

"Finally!" a man exclaimed. "Do you know how long I've been waiting here? I thought you people were supposed to be professionals. I have half a mind to-"

"We're very sorry sir," Cole sid smoothly, overriding the man's continued criticisms. "Would you like it in the trunk?"

"Yes, yes," the man grumbled. The crate was set down clumsily, and I strained to press my eye to the crack. Cole and Damien stood off to one side, Cole shaking the hand of a man whose face I couldn't see. A looming apartment building created the backdrop of the scene. Damien nodded his head cordially, and reached up to slam the trunk closed, cutting off my line of sight.

Muffled discussion continued for a few seconds more, then silence. My breathing had sped up without my conscious decision. It was only just dawning on me what had happened. I had been bought, and was being shipped off to who knew where. Terror filled me.

I kicked vainly at the side of the crate, but even that small movement left me lightheaded and gasping for breath. Damn it. If I ever got out of this I was never taking so much as an aspirin ever again. Shadows writhed at the corners of my sight, inky black against the dark trunk interior.

A car door banged, and the rumble of an engine started. How the hell was I gonna get out of this? If I didn't do something fast, I didn't even want to think about where I might be headed. I searched the crate desperately for splinters to unlock my hands, my fingers fumbling and numb.

We were moving now. Every bump in the road rattled my bones and made my head thump painfully against the floor. I squeezed my eyes shut as the nausea came back in full force.

_Come on you wimp, you're a Winchester!_ Dean's face flashed behind my closed lids. I might never see him again unless I figured something out. My fingers scrabbled over the wood, but it was smooth and unbroken. The car bounced again, smacking my head hard enough to make stars dance across my vision.

_It can't hurt if I rest for a little,_ I thought wearily. My body was so heavy and warm. Sleep whispered invitingly, brushing against me like waves lapping at a sandy shore. I couldn't think, couldn't remember why my instincts were shrieking at me, and the waves were shushing softly around my ankles, drawing me in deeper and deeper.

An insistent voice was yelling somewhere, screaming at me to stop, to come back! I halted and looked back for the source, but the crashing of the waves grew deafening, drowning out the pleading words. The ebb and flow was hypnotic, waves rising gently towards the beach with a rush, before breaking into a spray of white foam and retreating back to the wide blue expanse, hissing over the sand until the next wave overwhelmed it. It was so peaceful here. The salty water swirled around my thighs, coaxing, enticing. With a sigh, I surrendered and allowed the tide to sweep me out to sea.

* * *

Minutes, hours, days could have passed before I fully woke again. I had a vague memory of a needle piercing my arm, the glaring sun overhead obscuring the holders face, but that could easily have been a dream rather than an actual event.

I could tell as soon as I came to that something had changed. My head felt clearer than it had in days, and as I flexed each of my muscles in turn, they responded to my commands instantly and without effort. Granted, my tongue still tasted as though it was covered in a layer of furry mold- although that might have been from the rank gag that was still stuffed in my mouth- and a pounding headache hammered at my temples, so I wasn't completely back to normal. Despite that, I had forgotten how good it felt to be able to string more than two sentences together.

As my strength returned, so did the sensations in my arms and legs. Without my nerves deadened, I discovered just how many cramps the extended confinement had worked into my limbs. I straightened my legs to stretch out the sore muscles, but hit the bottom of the crate after only a few inches. Frustrated, I stamped down on the slats by my feet, but the wood barely rattled.

I forced down the abrupt swell of claustrophobia the move provoked, and rested my cheek against the floor. I had to think this through. For the first time in a long while, I was in almost full control of my faculties. Panicking now, when I had what might be my only chance of escape, was the stupidest thing I could do. It might only be a snowball's chance in hell, but there was no way I was going to let it slip through my grasp.

What I guessed to be roughly fifteen minutes passed when the motion of the car suddenly changed. The crunch of gravel filled the air, and the floor shook worse than ever. _A driveway?_ If so it was the longest one I had ever been on. It took another ten minutes for the car to slow to a stop

The driver door opened and closed, and the sound of footsteps reached my ears. My heart began to pound. _Steady, Sam. _

I closed my eyes and relaxed, pretending the drug was still keeping me safely unconscious. The trunk opened, and the clicking of a lock was followed closely by the lid of the crate being raised. Hot sunlight spilled over me, but I resisted the urge to shield my eyes. Dad's advice from years ago echoed in my mind.

"_Remember Sammy, timing is everything. Go too soon, and you'll be caught with your pants around your ankles. Too late, and the bastard will be ready for it. Choose the right moment, then commit to it."_

"How the hell is he still out?" a man asked loudly. "I could've sworn he'd be awake by now."

"Well he is just a skinny little thing. It probably hits him pretty hard," someone answered. I managed to hide my surprise, for those were the lilting tones of a woman. I had sworn the man was alone. Had she been in the car the whole time? I was more out of it than I thought, if I had missed something that obvious.

"Hmph. We better get him inside. Mr Cheverill will be home soon." Strong arms slid under my back and knees and lifted me from the crate. It took all my concentration to stay lax and allow myself to flop against the man's chest. _Almost there..._

Ever so carefully, I slitted my eyes open. Even through the shelter of my eyelashes, the late afternoon light was blinding after my days confined in my windowless cell. Almost immediately I closed them against the stabbing pain, but urgency was pulsing in my blood. If I didn't make a break for it soon I would lose my tenuous opportunity.

I peered out again, giving myself a second to adjust, and quickly scanned my surroundings. What I saw wasn't encouraging.

Straight in front of me, the direction we were walking, was a massive manor house. And when I say massive, I mean _massive._ It was hard to keep my expression slack, when inside I was gaping like an urchin from Oliver Twist. The crummy motels I was accustomed to were like flakes of coal, and this a glimmering diamond in comparison.

Wide sweeping steps led up to heavy mahogany front doors. Ornately carved pillars flanked the entrance way, swirling designs seeming to leap out from where they were chiseled into the stone. It must have been at least four stories, with uncountable windows, balconies, and even freaking _gargoyles._ Gargoyles? Really?

Lush gardens sprawled like a cat out from the front of the house, and wrapped around it until they disappeared towards the back. The immaculate front lawn was pristine, the grass a perfect shade of verdant green. The whole house seemed to emit an air of grandeur, accentuated by its tinge of gothic architecture.

But what really held my attention was not the grand mansion, although it was certainly impressive enough. It was the thick forest surrounding it, with not an indication of civilization in sight. Thick grey trunks marched away everywhere I looked, only coming to an end when they were swallowed by the gloomy shadows flitting from one branch to the next. The snaking driveway was the single thing that broke their ranks. I was in the middle of nowhere, with no one to help me. Even if I got loose, from the looks of it I would have to trek miles before coming to a town.

_Don't think about it,_ I told myself sternly. _I've survived in the wilderness plenty of times before._ I smiled inwardly, thinking about the camping trips our little family had taken, for hunting purposes of course. Dean had always complained the entire time, nonstop. About the scratchy sleeping bags, the crappy coffee, the cold, the unacceptable lack of female company... The list went on.

Time to move. My cheek was resting on the man's chest. I could feel the steady drum of his heart, the subtle shifting of his muscles, so much bulkier than mine. All at once, I was aware how skinny I was, how malnourished from the past few days. In my state, this man could probably hold me down with one hand. Surprise would be my only advantage. _Now!_

As hard and fast as I could, I clenched my fists together and drove them into the man's windpipe. He gasped, and his hands flew automatically to his throat, dropping me in the process. I landed hard on my side, but was back on my feet in a flash. The stinging pain of gravel embedded in my bare torso was nothing to what would happen if I didn't move now.

The woman who had been walking beside us shrieked as her compatriot went down. I winced, but didn't spare the time to check if anyone had been alerted to the scuffle. She snatched at me, nails scratching along my arm. I tore myself away and skipped out of reach.

A swift kick in the stomach to the man had him wheezing on all fours, struggling to breath. I ripped the gag out of my mouth, hurdled over him, and pelted as fast as I could for the beckoning sanctuary of the forest, the woman's screams ringing in my ears.

* * *

Bwahahahaha cliffhanger! Looks like Sam is getting his badassness back... For all you lovely, reviewing people out there, you can skip this part. For everyone else; You have _admitted_ to being puppy kickers. You would rather kick adorable little puppies than review! Seriously? Imagine their sad little faces! That is what you are doing! Would it make a difference if I said kittens? 'Cause now its both. You horrible puppy/kitten kicker. The only way to absolve yourself is to review :3


	6. Chapter 6

Well, by procrastinating like the sexy badass that I am not, I managed to meet my week deadline! Ha! So you're welcome, for those who care. Now I have to go pull my science grade out of the grave I dug for it :3

As always, thank you for those who followed, reviewed, etc. You are the reason that I got this out on time. Special thanks to the guest who told me that my story was "delicious". Whoever you are, your review made me happier than you know, and probably more than a normal person should have been.

Disclaimer: Sadly, all I own is the plot and all the random side characters not seen in the show.

Warnings: Language, violence, and what I think counts as abuse, so I'll put it in anyway.

* * *

I almost made it.

The haven of trees, branches laden with red and gold leaves, was yards away when my ears picked up the pounding of feet behind me. I pushed even harder, driving my heels deep into the soft earth, but there was only so much my battered body could take. Maybe if I had had a decent meal, or if the traces of the drugs had completely left my system, I could have put on a burst of speed and melted into the shadowy undergrowth. But Winchester luck doesn't work like that, does it?

As I sprinted over the last remaining open space, something struck me between the shoulder blades, sending me sprawling across the ground, pebbles digging into my exposed skin. The air was knocked from my lungs, and my head cracked against the unforgiving ground, making stars explode in front of my eyes.

I curled into a ball on my side, cradling my head in my cuffed hands, and tried to remember how to inhale. Heavy panting was my only warning before someone seized my shoulders and slammed me forcefully onto my back. I bit back a groan, and peered up at the man now straddling my chest.

"Fucking kid can run," he called over his shoulder. He turned close-set eyes to me, scowling. "Why the hell wasn't Weissman more careful?"

I bucked up weakly, writhing for all I was worth (which apparently wasn't much), and missed the breathless reply of the woman as she joined us.

"Don't," the man crushing my ribs snapped to me, leaning more of his weight over me to stop my squirming.

"Don't hurt him Carter!" the woman squawked. Her voice was irksome, high and squeaky. It held the annoying quality reminiscent of nails on a chalkboard. "Mr. Cheverill won't like it at all if you do!"

"I'm not an idiot," Carter rasped. "Stop your fussing woman. Although if Weissman had just done his damn job we wouldn't have had such a close call. Mr. Cheverill's gonna be pissed he slipped up."

"No need preaching to me. What that man was thinking, letting the boy get away..." She prattled on, lecturing about responsibility or something, and I let my head thump back into the dirt. My chest was starting to ache from the unrelenting pressure of Carter's considerable bulk. The forest was so close. It wasn't friggin' fair, to have tasted that sparse hint of freedom only to have it torn so cruelly away. If I had run the tiniest bit faster, or if I hadn't hesitated so long to make my move, I would have been in the trees and away.

A lump rose in my throat. I couldn't see how I was going to get out of this. Would I ever see my family again? A bitter taste coated my tongue when I thought of the last words I had spoken to Dad. I didn't mean them, not really. How could I have accused him of not loving us? Tears pricked at the back of my eyes, and an almost physical pain splintered my heart. I would never get the chance to make it right. He would never know how much I really loved him, stubborn ass that he was.

And Dean. What would this do to him? I wasn't naive. As much as he endeavored to hide it, I knew how much I meant to him. He was my confidant, my immovable foundation in a foundationless life. He was my Jerk, just as I knew I was the same to him. Did life really hate us that much that it would separate us forever? What had we ever done to deserve that? I suppressed a sob and blinked furiously to stop the tears welling in my eyes. _You're giving up already? You sure as hell won't get away if you act like that, damn it!_ I shouted at myself. _Quit your whining so we can find a way out of this mess!_

What did Dean always say? Always go down swingin'? A caustic smile touched my lips. I wasn't defeated yet, not by a long shot. I was going to fight tooth and nail to get back to my family, and if I was screwed anyway, I might as well give these bastards hell along the way.

Carter hadn't shifted from where he was sitting on my torso, but he wasn't pressing down as hard as he had been. I probably had the woman's ceaseless drivel to thank for that. She had yet to stop yammering, and Carter was beginning to look quite cross. _Kudos to you, woman._

With a powerful jerk, I thrust my hips up and threw Carter over my head. He landed with a whump and a shocked cry, but was on his feet in less time than I would have hoped. I scrambled up, watching him warily, ignoring the woman's grating wails of dismay. She seemed content to watch the drama from the sidelines, hands over her mouth.

The problem now was that my maneuver had placed Carter between the forest and me. He was eyeing me just as carefully, trying to predict which way I would go. I edged to the right, but he guessed my plan and sidestepped swiftly, blocking me off.

"Come on kid," he murmured, as though trying to calm a spooked horse. "Don't make this harder than it has to be."

"Go to hell," I ground out, my voice a hoarse croak after so many days of disuse. I really wished my hands weren't chained together. Without them, it was a chance in a thousand that I'd be able to win in a fight with the other man, who was already almost twice as broad as I was. He knew it too, and took a slow shuffle forwards, attempting to close enough distance between us to tackle me back to the ground.

"You can't get out of this," he said, dark eyes never leaving mine. "You'll only make it worse for yourself if you fight it."

I glared at him, and didn't answer. I couldn't let him distract me. Another small step towards me forced me to dance backwards to keep him out of range. If he kept this up it would eventually drive us back to the house, where I would inevitably be cornered and caught. That meant he knew what he was doing, which meant he was no amateur. Crap. This was bad. My mind was racing, but the only way out that I could see was through two hundred pounds of brawny muscle. I wasn't cocky enough to think I could dodge past him. I was far too tired.

In fact, I was on the verge of collapse, and my efforts to conceal it were getting increasingly flimsy. My knees were shaking from holding me up for even that short amount of time, and the world had started to waver dangerously around me. My mouth was sandpaper dry. All I wanted to do was lie down and sleep, and my drooping eyelids loudly agreed.

_No, focus!_ I commanded, trying to inject some John-like crackle into my mental voice.

Carter had slunk nearer without me noticing, trapped in my own head, but a twig snapping underfoot jolted my attention back to him. I could see in his expression that he knew I wouldn't last long. There was something almost resembling pity on his face, but it didn't stop him from cutting me off as I tried to circle around towards the trees.

"Enough of this," he reasoned softly, his tone betraying his intentions a moment before he lunged for me. I swerved aside and managed to duck under his clutching fingers, but I was unprepared when his ankle hooked onto mine and swept my leg out from under me. I windmilled frantically to regain my balance, and he snagged the opportunity to jump on me from behind.

His arms closed, vice-like, around my neck, one snaking over my windpipe, and the other keeping my head from shoving backwards into his face. _Damn it!_ It was a classic sleeper-hold choke, one Dean and I had practiced on each other countless times, and I couldn't believe I had let Carter pull a move like that on me. His arms tightened, and even as I struggled I knew it was pointless. Already my vision was going gray, the blood supply to my brain cut off.

"Sorry kid," Carter muttered it my ear, tone emotionless while I wheezed and thrashed in his grip. His hold constricted, and the world spun around me, finally fading to black.

* * *

"_Dean?" My voice is a whisper, hardly audible, lost in the darkness of the room. But somehow he hears me. He always does._

"_Yeah, Sammy?"_

"_Why did Mommy leave?"_

_A sharp inhale, followed by a long silence. Then, "because she couldn't stay Sammy. She didn't want to go, but she had to. You know that."_

"_Was it because she didn't love me?"_

"_No, of course not! Mom loved you Sammy! Why would you think she didn't?"_

"_They said she left 'cause she didn't love me. She didn't want me for a son."_

"_Who told you that?" The venom in his words is unmistakable._

"_These kids at school..."_

"_You listen to me Sammy. Those kids? They're just jealous that she loved you more than anything. She left because she had to, and for no other reason. No one would ever leave you if they had a choice."_

"_But they said-"_

_He cuts me off passionately. "It doesn't matter what they think! She loved you, just like Dad and I do. You are one of the most amazing people I know. Never forget that." _

"_So you won't leave me too?"_

"_Of course not!"_

"_Promise?"_

_Rustling. Footsteps padding across the motel floor. My blanket lifts and he crawls in beside me, his arms circling round my small frame to hug me tightly to him, my back against his chest._

"_I promise Sammy. Nothing will ever make me leave you."_

_The steady thumping of his heart lulls me back to sleep, watching over me through the long night._

* * *

These motel beds were strangely comfortable. The sheets were cool and smooth, unlike the usual scratchy rags I was used to. The mattress wasn't lumpy either, and the pillow! Maybe Dad had come by some money and booked us into an actual hotel, rather than the typical rat-infested pits we were accustomed to. However he'd done it, I wasn't complaining. This was the most comfortable bed I'd been in, ever.

A warmth on my skin told me that sun was streaming across me from somewhere. It must be a weekend, which was why Dad had let me sleep in so late. That was rare in itself, because normally he'd be dragging Dean and me out the door for a run, or a sparring match. Well, whatever. Fine by me if he chose not to do it today.

I sank deeper into the blankets, letting out a contented hum. It was always possible Dad had gone out into the town to research and left me and Dean for the morning. I flung out an arm to where Dean was lying, ready to "accidentally" smack him in the face and wake him from whatever dream he was having. Knowing him, it probably involved hot, half-naked chicks and whipped cream. I quirked my lips, already bracing myself for his wrath when such a pleasantly erotic dream was ended prematurely.

But my arm hit empty air. I frowned. Dean never, _never_ got up before me. I felt around, and encountered more sheets, but no brother. _What-_

Memory hit me like a boulder being dropped on my head. My eyes shot open and I bolted upright, a sharp pain stabbing my chest as my heart rate went from sleepy to frenzied in less time than it took to blink. I stared around the unfamiliar settings, breathing in short, little spurts, my hands fisting in the bedclothes so violently that my tendons popped with the strain.

The room I was in was palatial, at least to my uncultured eye. The bed, where I was sitting, was pushed against the back wall, ornately carved bedposts glowing in the sunlight spilling in from the wide, south-facing windows to my right. From the color of the golden rays, I judged that it was still late afternoon. In front of the windows was a small sitting area, consisting of a plush couch facing two equally cushioned chairs. Between them was a sparkling, pure-white, marble table To my left resided a heavy, antique desk, slightly towards the front of the room, and beside that a half-open door through which I could see the beginnings of an expansive wardrobe. Thick rugs were spread periodically throughout the room, polished wood floor peeking out from beneath them. It was the richest place I had ever been in, and I had never wanted to leave anywhere as much as in that moment.

With an impressive amount of flailing, I got my legs under me and waded to the edge of the mattress through a sea of fluffy pillows. God, I was so tired of waking up in unfamiliar beds. I was also tired of other people washing me. With a hint of revulsion, I realized my hair was slightly damp, and though I still had no shirt, I had on a pair of jeans I had definitely not been wearing before.

A stray blanked snagged my foot as I stood, sending me elegantly face-first into the floor. I flung an arm out to catch myself, and as my hand entered a stray beam of sun, something glittered in the the gentle light. _Huh?_ I clambered back up and stumbled over to the windows to examine it.

A wide band was clamped around my wrist, silver in color, and fitted snuggly enough that I couldn't slip it off. _What the hell?_ I turned it around, and found a small lock on the back, firmly soldered shut. That was it. No markings, no nothing. Just smooth, unbroken metal. A matching cuff encircled my other wrist as well, and a cool weight at my neck told me of a third.

Weird. I tugged at the one around my throat, disliking the confined sensation it gave me, as though it would choke me given the smallest opportunity. What were they for? I pondered this, but the only explanation I could think of was a kind of mark of ownership, which was all kinds of messed up.

But I had other things to worry about rather than jewellery with seriously questionable taste. Namely, getting the fuck out of here. I couldn't see a more perfect opportunity than right now, when I wasn't drugged or tied up. They had even left me without any supervision. Actually, it was a little unnerving how confidant the gesture seemed. Wouldn't these people want to protect their investments? Why hadn't they bothered to make sure I stayed put? I couldn't shake the uneasy hunch that escaping wouldn't be as simply as I'd hoped.

I looked out the broad bank of windows, trying to get my bearings. The sun was halfway below the horizon, lighting up the sky in a blaze of orange and red. Below me, stretching as far as I could see, leaves swayed in the playful breezes chasing each other through the trees, lit with a fiery tinge in the failing light. The myriad patchwork of autumn hues blended perfectly with the bloody sky, creating a vibrant tapestry of color. To my left, opposite the sun, the ground rose into a series of rolling, forested hills. The natural beauty would have been breathtaking, but necessity urged my questing gaze down the the mansion grounds.

I must have been on the other side of the house from where I first arrived, because there was no sign of the long, gravel driveway. Instead, directly underneath my window, a stretch of lush grass extended from the large stone patio to the treeline, several hundred feet away. To one side of the yard, an artful tumble of rocks harbored a gushing waterfall, which fell dazzling into a shaded pool at its base. A low wooden bridge arced across the rippling water. Flowerbeds were scattered over the entire scene, the once colorful petals brown and withered in the advent of winter fast approaching.

I ran my fingers over the sill, searching for a latch, but found it securely locked. If I had no other options I could always pick it. I was sure I could find a makeshift tool in the room, but it would be better to free myself another way. I was at least two, if not three stories up, and I didn't want to risk a broken ankle. That would ruin any hope I had of escape.

Other plans would have to wait until later. The clunk of a lock disengaging had me spinning around to face the bedroom door. My stomach roiled, one part apprehension, one part rabid panic as it swung open, and a man stepped across the threshold.

He was younger than I expected, no older than thirty-five, and his confident stride bespoke of a man who knew his place in life, and what a lofty position it was. At once he gave the impression of a man unwise to betray or impede. One would be insane to even think of it, for if they did he would crush them with no more remorse than squashing a bug. This manifested itself in the sharp set of his shoulders, the sure way in which he moved, the cruel turn of his lips. His dark blue eyes, so self-assured, held an edge of something colder, an unsavory glee as they rested on me. When considering the monsters I knew lurked in the shadows, his face was mundane. Yet in a way it was more worthy of the title "nightmare" than anything I had seen as a hunter.

And just like that it disappeared, like a mask sliding into place. The look in his eyes was covered by one of welcome, the imposing planes of his body softened, and he smiled kindly at me as though we were old friends. He didn't fool me for a second. I knew what he was: the same repugnant, damnable wickedness I had been confronting since I was six months old, only worse. And right now, I was at his mercy.

I shrank back as he crossed the room towards where I was standing. His expression was almost affectionate, which was perturbing to say the least.

"Ah, I've been looking forwards to finally meeting you!" he exclaimed, and for some reason I couldn't pin down, the rich timbre of his voice sent a cold shudder down my spine. I watched him, muscles tense, as he sank down onto the couch and leaned forward intently.

"Come now, make yourself comfortable," he nodded to one of the opposing chairs. His courtesy threw me slightly, but he looked complacent enough, so I left my post by the window and gingerly perched on the very edge of the chair. The man smiled encouragingly, eyes fixed keenly on my face.

"See, not so hard, was it?" When I didn't answer, he sighed delicately. "I'm not going to bite, you know."

_Yeah, not yet at least,_ I thought with a stab of dark humor.

The man plowed on through the awkward pause. "I'm afraid I don't know your name. I suppose Cole and Damien never bothered to ask."

The silence stretched between us while I debated whether to answer. I didn't see any harm in it, at least. "Sam," I said finally. "It's Sam."

"Sam." The man rolled the name over his tongue like sampling an expensive wine. "Short for Samuel, I assume?" At my jerky nod, he tilted his head thoughtfully. "Samuel. That's a good name. Strong and simple. It suits you." His lips curled into a grin. "I look forward to making your acquaintance, Samuel."

I stiffened. I had heard that tone far too many times from Dean when he was chatting up a pretty bartender to mistake its meaning now. "I hate to disappoint you," I said fiercely. "But I don't intend on sticking around that long."

The surprised expression hadn't even finished dawning in his eyes before my fist cracked into the side of his head. My other hand caught his chin in a powerful uppercut, followed by a jab to the solar plexus that expelled any air from his lungs. I let him fall back against the cushions, and pelted for the door that the cocky bastard hadn't even bothered to close.

I was halfway there when my foot froze mid-step. The moment seemed to hang suspended, plucked from the flow of time, unable to move forward. A terrible intuition prickled the back of my neck.

Then my world exploded into pain. I couldn't move, couldn't think, couldn't _breath_. It felt like my very nerves had been set alight, and the highest, hottest flames were charring them to ash. I had been shocked before, but never like this. This was like being struck by lighting over and over. It was so intense, I wasn't even sure it _was_ electricity coursing through me. From a long way away, someone was screaming. I almost couldn't tell it was me, because I couldn't feel my vocal chords. I couldn't feel anything beyond the blinding agony.

And as quick as it had come, it was gone. I was lying on the hard floor, gasping and trembling, clammy sweat beading my brow. The remnants of the sensation pinged under my skin, making my muscles twitch crazily.

Furniture creaked, and shoes clicked on wood, but I couldn't summon the will to move. All I could do was roll protectively onto my side, arms wrapped around myself, and try to steady my erratic breathing. I sensed the presence behind me crouch down, and then a hand pressed down on my shoulder, turning me onto my back. I flinched, pulling away, but the hand clamped down tighter, pinning me to the floor. The man spoke in a quiet voice, soft and deadly.

"That was a very foolish thing to do, Samuel." He gripped my chin, forcing me to look him square in the eye. "I guess no one explained this to you, but what you think doesn't matter anymore."

"Fuck you," I spat, wrenching at his arms.

Another lance of pain speared me, making my vision go white. Every muscle went rigid, and my back arched wildly as an unintelligible shriek tore itself from my throat. This one was shorter than the first, and when it passed I slumped back, unable to stop the whimper from slipping through my gritted teeth.

"Maybe I didn't make this clear." His tone was matter-of-fact. Fingers scraped against my scalp and lifted my head by the hair. I opened my eyes, and found that I was practically nose-to-nose with the man. "I. Own. You. You are here for my enjoyment, and nothing else. That is the only thing you are worth. Your only purpose. Understand?"

I thought of Dean, and my forgotten dream whispered from the back of my mind. "_It doesn't matter what they think! She loved you, just like Dad and I do. You are one of the most amazing people I know. Never forget that_." A small warmth flickered in my chest.

Knowing what the consequence would be, I gathered all my defiance and snarled, "Yeah I understand. I understand that you're an egotistical son-of-a-bitch that seriously needs to shove-" I interrupted myself with a howl of agony. This time, my hands went to my neck as I finally realized what the silver cuffs were for. It felt like acid flowing through my veins, pumped in from where the metal touched my skin.

Maybe he was sick of my attitude, because the pain went on and on and on. It continued for so long I thought my windpipe might rip from the screams forced out of it. After what felt like hours, but could only have been a few minutes at most, the tortuous burning abruptly stopped, as though a switch had been flipped. I was shaking so hard my teeth chattered.

"I was told you're a spirited one." A hand stroked the hair out of my eyes. "But as you can see, resisting will get you nowhere."

I turned and glared up at him, not trusting myself to speak.

"Ah Samuel, you will not be so stubborn after I have finished. You will break, just like every other child I have trained." He was so sure as he said this, so arrogant. It made me want to wipe the smirk off his face with my fist.

My righteous fury helped release my tongue. "I'll n-n-never let-t that ha-happen, you s-self-f-centered b-bastard!"

My stutter appeared to amuse him. He shook his head condescendingly and fingered at a bracelet around his left wrist. The cuffs tingled, and a short jolt of agony crashed over me.

"Believe what you want." He palmed my cheek in his hand, keeping my glazed eyes on his. "But you will break. And enough of this petulant name calling. From now on, you will address me as "sir", or "master".

I stared at him, disbelieving. If it hadn't been so real, I would have burst out in hysterical laughter at the ridiculous situation I had been thrust into. He wanted me to call him "master"? God, could life just not cut me a break?

He was waiting patiently for some sort of confirmation. When I kept my mouth shut he sighed, and his hand went back to the bracelet, watching apathetically while I cried out beneath him. As soon as he released it, the pain died away.

"Mr. Cheverill!" a woman called from the floor below. "You've got a call on line three!"

"Damn, and we were just making progress," the man, Cheverill, said conversationally. "I wouldn't try to leave this room if I were you, Samuel." He flicked my collar. "These will go off if you do." He stood, cracking his back, and surveyed me, still curled on the floor at his feet. "I'll be back soon. I would take this time to re-appraise your behavior, and to come to terms with your new life. When I return I shall expect more respect than you have shown thus far."

The door shut with a decisive click. I closed my stinging eyes and tried to convince myself that the trembling of my limbs was just an aftermath from the shocks.

* * *

For all you people who are amazing enough to review, I love you all. For everyone else: I don't know what you want from me! A dinosaur? What will make you review?! I see two reasons why you choose not to: 1) My story is just so boring and/or not your thing that its not really worth the time, OR 2) you're lazy. Which I totally understand because I moan for about ten minutes before actually getting up from the couch to get food. So I'm gonna help you out here.

1) Is the story going too slow? Why or why not?

2) Do you think that the characters are acting as they would in this situation, or am I writing something that they would not do?

3) What was your favorite part of this chapter? Why?

I am GIVING you ideas for what to say. You don't even have to think about something to tell me. Now you have no excuse for not reviewing :3 And for you lovely people who review anyway, feel free to answer these questions too!


	7. Chapter 7

Oh my God you people... I'm so sorry. This is so ridiculously late, and I don't even have a good excuse for it. RL and writers block decided to tag team me, and I only just managed to fend them off. Hopefully this extra long chapter will make up for it, but I won't be able to post every week anymore. I'm not even going to say when I'll update next, cause I have no idea and I haven't even started writing the next chapter yet. Usually I have the next one written up before I post the previous one. Thanks for being patient :3

Thank you to everyone who reviewed, favorited, followed, etc. They all make me disproportionately happy!

To Chaoimhe: your review made me grin like a psychopath :3 Sam (pillow pet one, not the real one) had to stab my ego with his horn to get it to deflate. Hopefully you like this chapter just as much as the previous ones.

Disclaimer: Shockingly, I _still_ don't own them. Not for lack of wishing though.

Warnings: **READ THESE:** Alright people, this is where all those warnings I've been telling you about come in. Honestly, there is a good chance you might hate me after this chapter, 'cause it's pretty bad. I was feeling kind of dirty writing it, and on top of that Pillow Pet Sam is no longer speaking to me.

So in this chapter there is: language, abuse, and graphic molestation and rape. For anyone who doesn't want to read that, I'll put a short summary of the chapter at the end.

* * *

As it happens, Cheverill hadn't been lying when he warned me not to leave. He didn't even lock the door behind him. He didn't need to. The moment my foot crossed the threshold, a blast of electricity erupted from the metal bands and raced through my body. I didn't even manage a scream before my muscles locked together under the burning onslaught. I couldn't think about escape, or the fact that Cheverill might come back at any moment. Instinct took over, and how to stop the pain was all it cared about.

When my sight cleared, I was on the floor. Again. Damn it.

I got my legs under me and pushed myself to my feet, pretending that I wasn't listing heavily to the side, and that I wasn't shaking like a leaf in a gale. I took a few steadying breaths and stumbled over the soft rugs to the bank of windows. Half sitting, half falling into one of the chairs, I tried unsuccessfully to quell the insistent tremors in my hands.

_Alright Sam, think._ I pushed away the rising feeling that was definitely not fear, and scanned the room, searching for anything I might have missed. The bed, the desk, the sitting area and the windows yielded nothing new. I examined the rugs and the framed paintings hanging on the walls, then turned my attention to the three doors spaced around the room.

There was one on each wall, excluding the one looking out over the forest. To my right, the one I had just tried, led to the rest of the house and was no longer an option. The door facing me, opposite the windows, looked to be a walk-in closet. I strode over to it and hesitated, wondering if the cuffs would go off. Deciding there was nothing for it, I screwed my eyes shut and pushed the door open. Nothing happened. Exhaling unsteadily, I flicked the light switch, but was disappointed to see no other door or window. Not that I had expected one. I surveyed the racks of clothes just in case, not really sure what I was looking for, but looking all the same. No miraculous escape plan presented itself.

Frustrated, I turned to the last door, which was slightly to the right of where the bed was shoved up against the remaining wall. I flinched as I opened it, expecting a zap from the cuffs, but it was only a bathroom beyond. A shower on the far side, next to a large bathtub, and coupled with a long, shining counter. Nothing caught my eye, so I returned to the main room to appraise my options.

As I saw it, I had two courses I could take. Well, three technically. First, I could try to get the cuffs off and escape through the main door. The obvious problem with this plan was that I wasn't sure I _could_ get the damn things off, especially the one around my neck. Also, even if I somehow managed it, I would have to sneak my way through a mansion most likely crawling with staff. The prospects of that were not encouraging.

Second, I could unlock one of the windows and brave the drop to the ground. This seemed more probable that removing the cuffs, but from this height I would be risking a broken ankle upon landing, if not worse.

My third choice wasn't even an alternative really, because it involved staying here for far longer than I was willing, and attempt to either steal the control bracelet off of Cheverill, or figure out how to disable the cuffs. There was no way in hell I was going to wait that long, which left options one and two.

I pondered the decision, keeping my ears pricked for anyone approaching the room, and finally settled on shimmying out the window. I was going to get a lot worse than broken bones if I stayed here, and it was quicker than trying to get my collar off. _Alright then, enough dawdling,_ I told myself. _Let's get this over with._

Apparently, Cheverill hadn't considered the fact that I might have known how to pick locks, or else he wouldn't have left me access to an entire closet full of wire coat hangers. Within minutes, I was sitting by one of the windows, holding a make-shift pick. My eyebrows furrowed in concentration, I wiggled the tool into the lock and carefully felt for the tumblers.

Loud voices echoed suddenly from outside the door, accompanied by footfalls that were heavy on the hardwood floors. My breath caught, and I whipped the hanger out of the lock and stuffed it under a couch cushion. I was not a moment too soon. A woman bustled into the room, mousy ringlets bouncing around her shoulders, carrying a covered tray in her hands.

She glanced around quickly as she entered, the skin at the corners of her eyes tightening almost imperceptibly as she caught sight of me standing cautiously on the other side of the room. I recognized her as the shrill, effusive woman from my arrival.

Never taking her eyes off me, she set the tray down on the floor just inside the doorway. "Mr. Cheverill says you're to eat that," she said in a rush. "He knows how hungry you must be." With a flurry of skirts, she retreated, as though afraid I would suddenly turn rabid and attack her.

As if on cue, my stomach rumbled. Now that I was aware of it, I was ravenous. The last time I had eaten had been with Cole and Damien, almost two days ago, maybe longer. My memories were foggy with drugs, so my sense of time was unreliable at best. I eyed the tray longingly, torn between food and escape. A short, bloody war ensued within my mind, until food won out and I scrambled over to it, mouth already watering.

A billow of steam bathed my face as I lifted the lid, carrying the most wonderful smell I had ever known. I inhaled deeply, then snatched up the plastic fork-not even anything I could use as a weapon- and eagerly dug into the plate of chicken and rice. Delicious flavor flooded my mouth, and I shoveled down half the food without pausing to breathe. _At least he feeds me well._ I took another large bit and chewed greedily, when an abrupt though made me drop the fork with a clatter. _He wouldn't have drugged it, would he?_

I swore softly at my stupidity, and replaced the cover, ignoring the heavenly scents wreathing around me. Hopefully I was just being paranoid, but years of living with John Winchester, for whom anal suspicion encompassed at least a third of his personality, had left its mark on me. I was also in no hurry to regress back into the drugged, mindless puddle I had been for the past few days. _Sam, you idiot!_

I raised a hand, experimentally flexing the fingers. I still felt normal, but I wasn't counting on it staying that way. The drug could just be slow-working. I stood and retrieved my bent coat hanger from the couch. Lucid or no, I was getting out. I would just have to put as much distance between myself and here before anything in the food rendered me incapable of thinking straight.

The crude lockpick did the trick. I clicked the tumblers into place and swung the window out, letting in a stream of chilly autumn air. I relished the fresh smells of falling leaves and frost, already imagining how nice it would be to run through the trees after days of confinement.

The window I had chosen was at floor level to minimize the drop as much as possible. I laid down on my stomach and grasped the sill to pull myself forward. My hands cleared the room, pressing against the outside of the house, and a worryingly familiar tingle ran through the metal cuffs. _No. He couldn't ha-_

Agony boiled down my arms and chest, raging through my nerves like white-hot pokers being stabbed through my skin. I couldn't choke back the scream that wrenched itself from my throat, or the way my muscles seized as though struck by palsy. My eyes rolled back in my head, and I couldn't pull my hands back inside, couldn't get the cuffs out of range of whatever activated them. The pain thundered down all around me, blocking out all other sensations. It only stopped when I fled deep within myself, and drew oblivion about me like a shield.

* * *

A pen was scribbling on paper. The noise irritated me. I wished it would go away so I could sleep, surrounded by these silken sheets and fluffy pillows. Without opening my eyes, I reached up lethargically to scratch at a spot under my collar. _Collar..._

I jerked upright, and was sliding off the bed before Cheverill had a chance to look around. He was seated at the desk, a half-finished letter in front of him, and at the burst of movement he turned in his chair, watching me calmly as I careened back and away from him. Sadly, my dramatic awakening was spoiled somewhat by the sudden onset of the mother of all head rushes. Blood pounded in my ears as it drained from my face, and I had to stumble back against the wall for support, the world tilting dangerously.

Outside, night had fallen. Stars winked at each other around the lopsided gibbous moon. The room was full of shadows, flickering in the light of a lone lamp. They capered over Cheverill's face, turning his eyes into deep chasms plunging far beneath the Earth's surface.

"Samuel, I thought I told you not to leave." His tone was quiet and even, but the undercurrent of menace running through it made me tense, all my warning bells blaring.

"I must admit I am surprised," he continued, surveying me with a calculating expression. "I did not expect you to be able to know how to make a lockpick, much less use it successfully." He held up the twisted coat hanger, rolling it between thumb and forefinger. "But then, I guess you're just full of surprises." He smiled coldly at me, and easily bent the piece of metal into a crushed, useless ball. I swallowed nervously at the glint in his eye, my mouth drying up as he stood and leaned back on the desk.

"I see that you have yet to accept the full reality of your new life. Your little jaunt out the window is evidence of that." His eyes caught mine, steely blue against soft hazel, and seemed to drill into my very soul, preventing me from looking away. "I think that we need to set a couple ground rules, yes?"

'You've got more than a few screws loose if you think I'm gonna listen to you," I snarled vehemently.

A flash of anger crossed Cheverill's features, quickly wiped away as he raised an eyebrow and pressed a hand to his wrist. The shock of pain, although brief, sent me gasping to hands and knees.

"Rule one," Cheverill said, as though nothing had happened. "You will not try to escape again. It is impossible while you wear those bands, and if you attempt to do so again your punishment will be most severe."

"You really enjoy the sound of your own voice, don't you?" I asked, clambering to my feet. No sooner had the question left my mouth than the cuffs went off, returning me right back to the floor.

"Rule two: you will give me the proper deference I am due. Any childish insults or mouthing off to me will not be tolerated." I managed a derisive snort, but he overrode me. "Furthermore, any endeavor to attack me, such as you did previously, will not transpire again. I can assure you that pursuing that course of action will only bring you consequences that would be prudent to avoid."

"God, would you drop the whole educated act and talk like a fucking normal person?" I snarked, proud my voice was steady, although I was leaning heavily against the wall to support my shaky legs. "Cause let me tell you, it doesn't make you sound half as smart as you-" I broke off with a smothered whimper, barely keeping myself from sliding down the wall as a third jolt of pain engulfed me.

"Rule three, and most important of them all: you will do what I tell you, when I tell you, and you will do it without question or complaint." Cheverill straightened from the desk and closed in on my sagging form, placing an arm threateningly on both sides of me, glaring intently into my rebellious face. I pressed myself back, not liking the invasion of personal space. "This includes every order, sexual in nature or not. You will obey me, and you will enjoy it. Your place is at my feet, where you belong. Understand, Samuel?"

I kneed him in the balls.

The anticipated surge of pain was worth it for the sound he made as I connected. I slipped down to the floor, howling, as the metal bands around my wrists and neck flared to life. I guess I pissed him off, because a full minute passed, and my muscles began to shake under the strain. My voice cracked, and I felt myself teetering on the edge of consciousness, trying to find an escape from the harrowing agony.

"No, no, we can't have you blacking out just yet," Cheverill whispered silkily in my ear, bending down to where I was huddled. The cuffs fell idle as hands clamped around my arms, yanking me to my feet and slamming me hard against the wall. I coughed, disoriented, and struggled feebly to pull free.

A cheshire smile was stretched across Cheverill's face. With surprising strength, he pinned both my wrists above me with one hand, and with the other brushed a lock of hair out of my eyes.

"It seems that you're a slow learner," he hummed, gently stroking my cheek and completely ignoring my efforts to break his hold. "But don't worry. I'm a very patient teacher." Then he leaned forward, and kissed me full on the mouth.

My brain froze. My eyes widened. His lips pressed harder against mine, but shock kept me from lurching away. I had known, _known_ that this was why he had bought me, but I had never thought I wouldn't have been able to escape before he had a chance to take advantage of me. _He's _kissing _me!_ I thought wildly, unable to process it.

It was only when I felt his tongue slip out and press against my clenched teeth that I snapped out of my daze. I jerked back, my head hitting the wall, and furiously wrenched my face away.

"Get the fuck away from me!" I shouted.

Cheverill gave a throaty laugh. "Why Samuel, we are only just beginning." His free hand gripped the points behind my jaw, forcing it open. His mouth covered mine, and his tongue swept over my teeth, needy and demanding. His body pressed flush against me, holding me immobile while I kicked and squirmed. The kiss deepened, and I gagged as I felt his arousal stiffening along my inner thigh.

Cheverill pulled back, breathing in short, little pants, releasing my chin to cup my cheek in his palm. "Get your hands off me," I snarled, lunging forward to smash my forehead into his nose. He managed to grab a handful of my hair a fraction of a second before I connected, and used it to crack the back of my head into the wall.

Stunned, my limbs slackened, and keeping a hand fisted in my hair, Cheverill hauled me across the floor and dumped me roughly onto the bed. I punched him in the face, but it was a glancing blow and he retaliated with a growl, reaching for his bracelet.

I screamed, clawing at the cuffs, and he pounced, wrestling my jeans off while I recovered. Suddenly, all that stood between me and him were my thin, flimsy boxers. I swung at him again, frantic to get him off me, but my attack was sloppy, all technique thrown out the window in my panic. He trapped my wrists and clambered atop my chest, restraining my arms with his knees. A ripping sound echoed through the room as he tore his shirt off, barely audible over the terrified beating of blood in my ear.

I bucked my hips feverishly, but he held on with unexpected tenacity and threaded his fingers through my hair, wrenching my head back to expose my throat. My racing pulse was visible at its base. Cheverill stared at it lasciviously, cranking my neck even farther to suppress my struggles. Our twin gasps filled the room, his of desire, mine of fear.

Then his mouth was on my skin, kissing and licking, and I was yelling indiscernibly in outraged horror. His lips moved to my chest, leaving a trail of reddened marks in their wake. He lifted his head, pupils blown, to give me a sick grin, and in the shadows cast by his brow, he looked like one possessed. But I had no time to consider the thought. His teeth closed around my right nipple and teased at the soft flesh, swirling his tongue across it like some sort of delicacy.

His hands on my scalp were painfully tight. He gave my chest a final suck before raising his head and crushing his lips into mine, silencing my shouts. I bit at him, so he grasped my chin to hold me steady and explored my mouth, his tongue fighting with mine.

"Ah, Samuel, I knew you would not disappoint me," he ground out when he broke away. "You're simply intoxicating. I have no other word for it." He nibbled on my left earlobe, and gradually worked his way up to the shell, nipping at the fragile skin.

"You're fucking sick!" I said, getting a warning tug on my hair when I attempted to push him away. "I'm gonna kill you, you perverted freak!"

"Sticks and stones Samuel," he purred, and licked a long stripe up my neck, inducing a disgusted grunt from me. My protests and thrashing only served to stretch his smile wider.

One hand still tangled in my hair, he sat up and undid the clasp of his pants with the other. My breath hitched, and I strained desperately to throw him off me, to get him to _stop_. His pants came off and he tossed them carelessly aside, sending a bolt of electricity through the cuffs when my elbow came free and slammed into his ribs.

Hooking his arms under my shoulders, he heaved me into the center of the enormous bed, dropping me on my back amidst the pillows. The aftershocks of the cuffs fizzled out as he straddled my arms and torso and bent to kiss me again.

I writhed in a frenzy, spitting curses, while his lips latched onto my throat. His hands wandered up and down my chest, and the feeling of his bare skin on mine made me want to be sick. His fingers caressed my stomach, then dipped lower and lower, snapping the band of my boxers playfully against my hips. My eyes shot open as he began to work them down my legs. _No! Nonononono!_

I won't deny that my father and I have our differences. Especially as I got older, and began to realize that Dad wasn't the infallible superhero I thought he was, our arguments became harsher and more frequent. I always loathed the way he raised us to be soldiers, the physical training and the sparring, when all I wanted was to be a normal kid who could turn in his homework on time. Hunting came before school, and always would. Never had I thought I would be grateful for the hours spent trading blows with Dean, learning to beat opponents twice my size.

Cheverill's weight shifted to better grasp the hem of my boxers, and all my years of grappling practice finally decided to kick in. He had left the barest space between where his thigh was pinning my bicep to the bed, but it was all I needed. Like an eel, I snaked my arm free and threw a savage punch across his face. The blow knocked him off balance, allowing me to yank my other hand from beneath him and hammer it into his stomach. A look of surprise fluttered across his face, but I didn't pause to let it register. I had to get the bracelet before he used it.

He realized what I was trying to do just as I lunged at his wrist. We wrestled for it, and I used the distraction to thrust my hips up and roll so that now I was the one on top, his legs still circling my waist. Cheverill's gaze darkened, and he clenched his knees around my ribs, breaking my hold on his wrist as he shoved me back. Furiously, I jabbed my elbows into the nerves on his lower thighs. He fell away, but then his heel smashed into the center of my chest, catapulting me over the edge of the bed.  
I landed with a loud thud, my shoulder taking the brunt of the impact. I grunted as pain spiked through the joint, but it was eclipsed almost immediately as electricity sparked out from the cuffs. I snapped my jaw shut to cut off the shriek as a roaring torrent of lightning poured into my veins. My hands curled into talons that scrabbled pointlessly at the wood beneath me, back arching against the floor. The muscles in my neck stood out in corded ropes from the effort of holding back the scream gouging at my throat.

Cheverill stood from the bed and looked down at me, hand pressed unrelentingly to the bracelet. "Samuel, you are sorely trying my patience. If you do not contain yourself I will be forced to discipline you." His tone was level, but cold anger flashed in his eyes.

I almost laughed. Here he was telling me to control myself, while not ten seconds ago he was literally ripping his clothes off? Fucking irony. Not that I was in any mood to appreciate it when my skin felt like it was charring off my bones.

Cheverill let his hand drop from the bracelet, and bent to lift me back onto the mattress. Half-conscious, I only realized what he was doing when the floor vanished from under me. Damn, had I really lost so much weight that _everyone_ could pick me up? None too gently, Cheverill deposited me amid the sheets. He considered me for a moment, then backhanded me across the face, the sound of flesh hitting flesh echoing around the room.

"I dislike punishing you with beatings Samuel," he said, moving away from the bed. "I find it detracts from one's appeal to have bruises and swelling." My eyes fixed on the ceiling as I contemplated the strength it would take to get up. I really should, but I was so comfortable...

"That is why I prefer the bands. They are exponentially more refined." A drawer opened, and something clinked quietly. "With them, you decide how much pain to administer, and for how long. You are in utter control of what the wearer feels." Cheverill reappeared, a shiny length of thick wire in hand. I flinched back, willing my muscles to get their shit together and work again, but they studiously ignored me. Who knew getting shocked repeatedly could take so much out of you? Cheverill took my unresisting wrist, clipped one end of the wire to the cuff, then threaded the wire through the headboard before attaching the remaining end to my other cuff.

_I don't think I like beds too much anymore,_ I thought fuzzily. _Too many people have been tying me to them._ I gave the bindings a weak tug, the familiar restrained sensation triggering adrenaline to seep back into my body. _Fucking spectacular timing,_ the sarcastic part of my mind fumed. _It couldn't have kicked in _before _he tied me up?_

"Ah, don't look so put out Samuel. The night is still young!" Cheverill informed me cheerfully. He was smiling again, one hand resting on my bare knee. The quiet menace from moments ago was gone. I blinked at him, bemused by the sudden change, until his touch glided higher and the meaning of his words sank in. A sick fear flowered in my chest.

The first time I learned what pedophiles were, I had only been four. We had been staying in a ramshackle, old house while Dad hunted down some witch with a fetish for cutting out intestines, preferably while the poor bastard was still alive. Dad had taken Dean and I with him to the local library while he did some research, and we were sitting at one of the tables amid the shelves of books. I was pawing through one, big pictures of sea creatures leaping out from the pages, when I heard a rumble of voices and looked up. An unpleasantly sweaty man, face flushed, was leaning over Dean with a smile on his fleshy lips. I was confused, because I was sure we didn't know this man. But if we didn't, why was he looking at Dean like that? I could see Dean didn't like him any more than I, because when the man tried to put a hand on his shoulder, he scooted his chair back as far as he could go without knocking into the shelf behind him. Suddenly Dad was there, fury written all over his face.

"Get away from my boy." The promise of bodily harm was so prominent in his deep growl, even I shivered in my seat. The man paled and backed away, stammering, then fled into the maze of books. Dad hustled us out after that. Once we were back in our motel room, he sat us both down and, young as we were, made damn sure we knew how to make people to keep their hands to themselves.

I had a feeling pedophile wasn't the word to describe Cheverill. My brain chimed in that ephebophile was probably more accurate, but at the moment I couldn't find it in me to care. Not when Cheverill was tracing the contours of my face with his fingers, obviously savoring the fact that I could no longer slap his hands away. I braced myself as he leaned in and pressed a long, lingering kiss to my unresponsive lips. It was less demanding than the others, sweeter, and felt all the worse for its intimacy.

"I'm going to kill you," I spat when he pulled away.

He let out a quiet chuckle. "I love your spirit Samuel. It's such a curious thing." He tucked a finger under my boxers and teasingly pulled them down a couple inches. "I'm going to enjoy watching it break."

No matter how hard I fought, I couldn't dislodge him, and I turned my face away as I felt him pull the boxers over my ankles. My cheeks burned with humiliation. God, I was pathetic, letting him do this to me. How could I have been so stupid, so _weak_ to get myself into this situation? I cringed inwardly at the disgusted look on Dad's face, knowing his son wasn't strong enough to walk five steps without needing his hand held. Dean wouldn't have let himself get jumped like I had.

Cheverill shucked off his own underclothes and forced my legs apart so that he could settle onto the bed between them. Ever so slowly, his hands moved from my hips to the base of my limp member, making me shiver involuntarily. He tapped it lightly, artificial hurt in his expression.

"Aren't you excited?" he asked. "I know I've been looking forward to this all day." I gritted my teeth as he wrapped a hand around my length and unhurriedly began to work it up and down. "It's alright. I'll liven you up a bit first."

I bit my lip and ground my cheek into the pillow to hold back the moan I knew he was waiting to hear. More than anything else, I hated how _good_ it felt, when every inch of me was horrified at what he was doing. His initial, languid pace soon sped up, until I was completely stiff in his grasp and my lip was raw and bloody from the struggle of remaining silent. A fingernail tickled at the precum beading my tip, and my control slipped. I bucked up into his touch, a gasp filling my lungs before I could stop it. Cheverill grinned as I blushed and looked away, furious by my body's betrayal.

"Relax Samuel," he said, giving me another tender pull. "You are doing yourself no favors by your belligerence."

"Go to hell," I bit off, digging my nails into my palms as he kneaded my inner thighs. He winked, then bent and closed his lips around my swollen head. This was too much for me. I groaned low in my throat, arching against the tongue that flicked over my skin. How could I actually _like_ this? But I couldn't help the knot of pleasure that formed between my legs as Cheverill took more of me into his mouth and sucked salaciously. God, I was disgusting. His hands wandered over me, trailing lines of heat wherever they went. One found my sac and massaged it delicately.

I could feel the edge rushing closer, and unwillingly bucked up again, all at once repulsed and needing to come. I squeaked in surprise when Cheverill drew back and clamped a hand tightly around my base and sac, preventing me from peaking.

"You climax when I allow it. Not before," he growled. Without releasing his grip, he ducked back down and swallowed me whole, making heat pulse through my entire body. I thrashed against his hold, body vibrating with the need of release, straining against the wire and cuffs. Pain began to build along my length as his ministrations continued. The taste of copper flooded my mouth as I bit down on my tongue, trying and failing to remain silent. More than anything, I didn't want to give him the satisfaction, but as the seconds ticked by, my defenses gradually weakened. A plaintive whine caught in my chest, and I was ashamed to find a tear creeping down the side of my temple. But I couldn't help it, just as I couldn't stop myself from begging as the pressure became unbearable.

"Please stop. Please," I sobbed, hating how imploring my voice sounded.

Cheverill withdrew slightly and met my eyes with satisfaction, though his hand didn't move an inch from its position. "You're learning already Samuel! I'm delighted with how polite that was. Still," his fingers squeezed tighter, and I jerked fruitlessly against the cuffs, a low keen escaping me. "We have a long way to go until you're trained up properly."

"No, stop! Stop!" I cried, but for all the attention he paid me, I might as well have been yelling at a brick wall. He let his other hand roam, exploring every part of me, until I was half-mad with the prolonged arousal. He took his time, fondling and stroking, and at each noise of protest I made his grip contracted. Every movement only made the pain worse, so finally I simply lay there, utterly powerless to do anything else.

"Very good," Cheverill said, patting my leg. "I think that's enough for now." He took his hand away, and I shouted aloud at the intensity of the climax as it consumed me. Briefly, I wondered if it would actually rip me apart. The force of it snatched me up and whirled me away, bringing me soaring high before casting me back down into my drained body. As it ended, all my hurts suddenly made themselves known, telling me just how many places ached. I mustered up a moan, eyes closed.

"Hush Samuel, hush." Cheverill bent to kiss me, first my lips, then lower, down my neck and collarbone. "It's alright. I'm going to take good care of you."

"N-no, stop." It was a whisper, a desperate, last ditch effort to convince him that this was wrong. That he should take back what he had done. I don't know why I bothered. I felt a huff of amusement on my skin, and then he flipped me over onto my stomach. There was a pause. Later, I admitted to myself that I had known what was coming. Maybe if I had been stronger I could have prevented it.

He pressed me down to the mattress, one hand on my hip and the second snarled in my hair. Lips kissed across my shoulders, and I felt his hard length poke my ass.

"No... Please don't..." The words floated between us, shimmering and fragile like a soap bubble.

He turned my face towards him, and kissed the corner of my eye where a tear was threatening to fall. "This is who you are now Samuel," he murmured softly. "Never forget that."

He thrust forwards, hard, and I screamed as something inside me tore. The pain was the worst I had ever felt, worse that when a werewolf had shredded my leg, worse than the snapping of a bone, worse even than the agony of the metal cuffs, because I knew that it was something- someone _inside_ of me. _Oh God, make it stop, make it stop!_ I pleaded. But it didn't.

Cheverill drew back slightly, then slammed back in, burying himself deep within me. I screwed my eyes shut, breathing in short pants. I've always thought of myself as tough. Not as tough as Dean and Dad, to be sure, but no pushover. Winchesters had more grit than that. But the knowledge of what was happening, what he was _doing_ to me? If I could have died, I would have, then and there. It was bad enough I was the weak link of the family, but now I had proof. Even if I got away and found Dad and Dean, how could I face them again, after what I had done?

Cheverill rubbed soothing circles on my back, shoving in farther. He rocked forward and back, establishing a rhythm that had me gritting my teeth to hold back the agonized sobs. A layer of sweat sprang up on our skin, and his grip on my waist became bruising as his tempo increased mercilessly, groans of arousal emitting from the back of his throat.

I could feel my insides shredding with each thrust, the pain of what was happening and the sheer weight of my turbulent emotions threatening to crush me between them. Just when I thought I would pass out from their combined potency, Cheverill threw back his head and climaxed. He came inside of me, and I almost threw up at the slosh of liquid and the trickling sensation down my legs. Slowly, Cheverill pulled himself out and tumbled to the bed beside me, a look of ecstasy lighting up his features.

We lay like that for a time, getting our breath back, me fighting to find a handle on the pain. After awhile Cheverill rolled to face me, brushing his knuckles down my cheek.

"That, Samuel, was beautiful," he praised. "I can't even imagine how good you'll be after I've finished with you."

I closed my eyes and turned away, too exhausted to reply. He petted my hair fondly, and propped himself up on one elbow to roughly kiss the line of my jaw. His fingers traced a path down my spine as he leaned in and said, "don't relax just yet. As I said, the night is still young. We've got plenty of time."

* * *

Much, much later, cool moonlight touched the rumpled bedsheets, illuminating the chaos in a silvery glow. Cheverill's heavy breathing was the only sound in an otherwise silent room.

He was tucked up against me, one arm thrown possessively over my chest. The cuffs were still wired to the bed, keeping me from slipping out from his embrace. I stared out the bank of windows, watching the branches of the trees below tossing in a distant wind. My mind was blank, void, flat. It was like a placid ocean kept determinedly still. If one looked at it, they would assume it tranquil, unaware of the looming leviathan half-hidden in the gloomy water. I refused to acknowledge its presence, to think of anything at all. Not Dean, not Dad, not the man in the bed beside me, or the sticky substances coating my thighs. The throbbing pain in my lower back had been shoved firmly aside, into a dusty, overlooked corner. I couldn't think of these things, any of them, because if I did there would be nothing to stop my sanity from shattering like fragile strands of spun glass.

In the wash of moonlight, I shifted my stiff shoulders and marvelled at how different my body seemed, like it was no longer mine. How could I go back to who I had been, when I had been indelibly claimed by another? I twisted my wrists, the bands glimmering, and flexed my fingers, feeling the familiar contraction of muscles under the skin. It was mine, and yet... not. A dark streak across my knuckles caught my eye, and I turned my face away, bile burning in my throat.

Automatically, I stamped down on the emotions that welled up at the sight, fighting to repress the memories aching to spill over my mental dam. I wouldn't remember, I _couldn't_ remember. Not now. Perhaps not ever.

So I didn't. Instead, I closed my eyes, blocking out the feeling of Cheverill's breath tickling across my collarbone. Imagining I was a breeze racing through the wind-blown trees. Imagining I was free.

* * *

Summary: Sam tries to leave but the cuffs prevent him. When he unlocks the window and tries to climb out they go off again, and he blacks out. Later he wakes up with Cheverill. They talk, and Sam attempts to fight Cheverill off, but eventually Cheverill overpowers him and rapes him.

Well, the questions last time seemed to work well last time, so I'm gonna keep doing it. This time I'm offering baby pandas as a bribe! Although you do have to ask for them to get one.

1) What that too graphic? Not graphic enough?

2) Should Cheverill have waited to put the moves on Sam? Why or why not?

3) Is there anything I should add in to improve the story? Anything at all? Or you could tell me your favorite part. That'd work too :3

Feel free to answer these or not. If you want to I would love it, but if you want to just review I would love it too! If you want to do neither I suppose I can't stop you, but I'm not gonna stop saying that it's not worth writing if nobody likes it!

Next chapter, Dean and John come back in!


	8. Chapter 8

Wow, you know you really need to upload again when someone asks you why you abandoned your story. I'm sorry (again) that it took so long, and thanks to everyone for putting up with me and my ridiculously slow writing. I hope this chapter makes up for it, at least a little!

Thanks to everyone who reviewed, favorited etc etc. Special thanks to my friend MrKawaiiJake, who decided to step in and be my beta after realizing I really needed one!

Disclaimer: Nope, don't own them. Shockingly. Song lyrics at the end are from "Let Me Put My Love Into You", by AC/DC, and I can't say I own that either.

Warning: Lots of language, mentions of sexual abuse, and a crap load of angst.

* * *

The rain had started again. It drummed insistently on the motel roof, a steady pattering like the gentle tapping of fingernails against the windows. Where the ragged drapes didn't quite come together, a wedge of dark sky was visible, a roiling froth of bruised thunderheads that swept from one horizon to the next, shielding the stars and moon from sight like curtains drawn across an unlit stage. Every so often, a flash would illuminate the towering clouds, displaying their awesome size and power for the span of a heartbeat, before flickering out and leaving the viewer blinded and breathless. The boom of thunder would accompany it moments later, as though nature was applauding itself on its performance.

At this time of night, few were awake to acknowledge the show, and of those, even less were sober enough to appreciate it. Only the neon signs of strip clubs and bars shone through the driving rain, their reflections trembling on the glistening surface of the road, capering grotesquely when a stray car splashed through them. The drenched pavement was a sheet of guttering yellows, greens, and pinks. The colors seemed too bright, too gaudy. In a dreary, waterlogged landscape, they leapt out from their silvery gray surroundings, advertising sin and pleasure all at once.

Inside the motel room, the snatches of drunken laughter and growls of thunder were muffled. Here, the steady ticking of the clock by the bathroom door beat out a slower, more sonorous beat to the rapid pulse of the rain. Their tuneless melody seemed all the louder in the shadows that clung to the corners of the room, slinking under the beds and twining lazily around table legs. Dark shapes stretched luxuriously, revelling in their freedom to explore the night without the sun to confine them. They wandered excitedly around the room, just barely kept at bay by the soft, blue glow that emanated from the open computer balanced on Dean's lap.

With shaking fingers, Dean tore his eyes away from the screen and reached for the mug of coffee resting on the table in front of him. He tilted it back, then swore under his breath as the last couple drops trickled sluggishly over his tongue. Fucking great. Carefully, he set the mug back down and glanced over at John's form sprawled out on the other bed. Tired as his father was, the noise and fumes of brewing coffee would certainly rouse him. _No more caffeine for you then,_ Dean thought resignedly to himself. He forced his attention back to the computer, squinting at the tiny words that seemed to scatter like frightened rabbits whenever he looked at them, and rubbed impatiently at his prickling eyes. He needed to focus. He couldn't afford to doze off again. Not when that damn clock on the wall seemed hell-bent on reminding him that every second slipping by was another second that Sam was missing, another second that Dean failed to get him back.

_**Tick-tock, tick-tock**_, it mocked. _**You let him go. **_**You** _**did. What kind of big brother are you?**_

Dean shook his head and did his best to ignore it. There was no way he was going to have a heart to heart with a damn _clock_.

_**I'm surprised he's even lasted as long as he has, if you're the one looking out for him. What your dear old dad was thinking, trusting him to a failure like you...**_

Dean curled his hands into fists and stared blankly at the screen, teeth gritted as he tried to block out the words.

_**I suppose you're not good for anything, are you?**_the clock continued spitefully. _**You had one job, just the one! How do you fuck that up? Do you have to practice being a complete screw up, or does it come naturally?**_

Dean glared at the wall, struggling to contain his rising temper. "Shut up," he breathed, keeping his voice low.

_**Ouch, so it does come naturally**__,_ the clock shot back. _**Well sucks to be you. But you know who it'd suck worse to be? Your poor baby brother. He's probably dead by now, and it's all your fault.**_

"I said, shut up!" Dean spat. "He's not dead."

_**Yeah, maybe you're right.**_ The clock sounded sarcastic. _**He's probably having a lovely afternoon tea with Santa and the Easter Bunny. I guess you worried for nothing. Face it Dean-o, little Sammy's dead, died all alone and screaming, and you couldn't save him.**_

"You don't know what the fuck you're talking ab-"

_**Don't I? I know that you're sitting here with exactly nothing, no clue what to do next, while little bro's corpse is stiffening in a back alley. Of course, that's best case scenario. There's always the chance some supernatural fuck decided they wanted a new toy to play with. I'd put my money on vamps. They're probably tearing into him right now, makin' him scream real good before they drain him and-**_

"You say another word, I swear to God I'll-"

_**Tick-tock Dean-o, tick tock. The longer you take, the longer Sammy is someone else's little bitch. I'd hurry it up too. Some people take "bitch" a little more literally than you do-**_

The clock shattered against the floor with a loud crash and splintering of glass. John jolted up from bed, drawing a glittering, wickedly sharp dagger from beneath his pillow in the same motion, but all he saw was Dean standing over the ruined clock, shudders running through him from head to toe.

"Dean?" John asked, slowly getting to his feet and sliding the knife back into its sheath. "Son, what are you doing?"

"Sorry sir." Dean's voice was tight and stiff. "Couldn't sleep, that's all." He turned away from John's knowing gaze and made to pick up the laptop from where he had tossed it away.

"Dean," John stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. "I, ah..." He shuffled his feet awkwardly, as though unsure of how to begin. "You can't keep going like this."

"Like what?" Dean said, playing dumb.

"Like what you're doing Dean! You have to take care of yourself. You don't eat, and you don't sleep, and it's killing you!" John exclaimed.

"I'm fine, Dad! I know how to look after myself!" Dean retorted, but the fire was missing from his words. He sounded as though he was two seconds from breaking down completely.

"My ass you're fine! When was the last time you actually ate something? Or slept for more than twenty minutes at a time?" Dean scowled and turned away, but John spun him back around, determined to make his stubborn son see reason. "We'll find him Dean, but running yourself into the groundisn't helping!"

"Well what do you want me to do!" Dean shouted back, knocking away John's hand and glowering up at him. "You want to take our sweet time about this, while Sam's who knows where? Excuse me for not wanting to sit around with my thumbs up my ass!"

John took in a harsh breath, and reminded himself that Dean was frightened and exhausted. Now was not the time to scold him for running his mouth off. "We're not just sitting here," he said evenly. "But these guys are hard to pin down. We'll get back at it in the morning, and if anyone finds something they'll call us. Bobby's put his feelers out, and people are looking." Dean opened his mouth, but John spoke over him. "Hell, even Josh is trying to track them down, and you can bet if there's any info on these guys, he'll find it."

Dean had to nod to that one. Researching prowess was something of a must when it came to hunting, but Joshua Matthews was one of the best. Give the man a name and within five minutes he could tell you anything from their preferred shampoo brand, to the number of affairs they'd had with their neighbors' wives.

John dragged his attention back with a hand on him arm. "I know you're worried Dean. Hell, so am I," he smiled slightly, though it came out as more of a grimace than anything. "But doing this to yourself isn't helping Sam."

The shushing sound of the rain filled the room. The faint light let in from the skewed curtains outlined Dean's motionless form in faded blues and reds, the fiery, city colors dampened by the relentless storm. A burst of lightning lit the sky, a whip crack of thunder following at its heels. The tense silence stretched, until Dean slumped in defeat.

"Yes sir," he whispered. "I'm sorry."

Lightly, John grasped the back of his son's neck and gave it a squeeze before letting go. "We'll find him Dean," he promised.

Dean gave him a wan smile and picked the laptop up from the floor. He hesitated a moment, looking at the screen. "Five more minutes?" he asked imploringly. "Then I swear I'll crash."

John sighed, taking in his son's red-rimmed eyes and pleading expression. Damned if that boy hadn't picked up a trick or two from watching Sam develop his own kicked puppy face. He really needed to find some way of warding it off.

"Fine," he grumbled, then leveled a warning finger at him. "But after that you turn in, got it?"

Dean nodded. "Five minutes." He settled back on the bed and reopened the computer while John crossed to the tiny motel fridge and pulled out a beer. Dean could almost hear the man's liver starting to cry. _Ah well,I guess it's five o'clock somewhere_, Dean shrugged. He was in no position to criticize. John wasn't the one arguing with clocks.

He lay back and stared at the two pictures on the screen, frustration beginning to coalesce in his chest. An entire week since Sam had been spirited away under his very nose, and this was all they had to go on. Trying to pin down the two men from the video was like searching for a specific pebble in the middle of the Himalayas. In other words, practically impossible, and totally infuriating. They had almost nothing to identify the men, no clue of who they were or why they wanted Sam. Dean wouldn't have believed how hard it had been to simply unearth their names. It was dumb luck they had found even that much, and from there the luck had run out.

Cole Bennett and Damien Cawfield were just not there, like they didn't exist. There was no record of them anywhere, no birth certificate, home address, car registration. There were no medical files, nor could they be found on any school registry. There weren't even parking tickets in their name. For all intents and purposes, Bennett and Cawfield had never been born.

To be completely wiped from the system without a trace was hard to pull. Almost impossible. And these two had nearly managed it, erased but for their names found by some miracle on one of the sketchiest websites Dean had ever been on. He wasn't even sure what the original purpose of the site had been. Who wanted to disappear that badly, and had the means to achieve it? Whoever these guys were, they knew what they were doing, and it pissed Dean off. Sammy couldn't be snatched by some normal, amatuer kidnappers, no. He couldn't do anything halfway, and had to catch the attention of professionals. _When_ they found him, he was going to kick Sam's ass for this.

With so little to go on, John and Dean had been forced to look farther afield. Over the past three days, they had scoured the city for anyone who had come into contact with either Bennett or Cawfield. They had been taxing days, both of them aware that the longer they took, the farther away Sam was getting. So when Dean had- purely by accident- ducked into a crap-hole coffee shop for a caffeine boost, and the kid manning the counter had recognized the blurry picture Dean had been pouring over, Dean could've knelt down thanked any god who would listen. Every day for almost a month, Bennett and Cawfield had come into that coffee shop at three o'clock, ordered two cups of coffee, and sat at the same table overlooking the street. The fact that the table had an excellent view of Sam's high school a couple blocks down had not been lost on Dean. The kid had even remembered the model of the car they had used, a two-door, blue Honda Accord. It wasn't much (damn Accords were everywhere it seemed), but it was all they had.

After breaking into the city's surveillance tapes (thank God for Big Brother), they'd finally caught the car and its plates. It was indeed a blue Honda Accord, complete with the darker haired one, Cole Bennett, in the driver's seat.

But from there the trail had gone cold again, to both Dean and John's complete chagrin. As far as they could tell, Bennett and Cawfield- and probably Sam as well- had departed from the city, leaving them with no clues as to where they were headed.

It was driving Dean up the walls. If there was anything he hated more than Sam getting snatched by unknown lunatics, it was knowing Sam was still with said lunatics while he was unable to go after them and mete out some well deserved ass-whooping, big brother style. Because nobody was allowed to mess with Sam except for him, and these ass-hats seriously needed to be reminded of that. It was the reason he was running on little more than three hours of sleep and about seven gallons of coffee. He would sleep when they got Sam back, he reasoned.

Although his Dad was probably right, judging by the way the bright screen kept wavering in and out of focus, and how clumsy his fingers were on the keyboard. Dean stifled a yawn, ignoring the disapproving look John cast him. He had three more minutes, and dammithe wasn't going to waste them.

The noise of the storm grew louder, the thrum of the rain increasing until it drowned out the tapping from the keys. John leaned against the counter, nursing his beer and his thoughts. A sudden burst of obnoxious laughter passed by their room, punctuated by stumbling footsteps and whiskey-soaked murmurs. A stillness draped itself over the room.

"Aha!" Dean yelled, shattering the silence like a brittle sheet of ice. "Got you, you sons of bitches!" His outburst startled John into nearly dropping his beer.

"You got something?" he asked incredulously, practically flying to Dean's side.

A triumphant grin lit up Dean's face, the first true smile he'd worn in far too long. "A traffic camera caught their plates pulling into Newark, Delaware, about a half a day ago." He jumped to his feet, more energized than he had been in days. "If we leave now we can be there in five hours, six at most."

"Hold on, Dean," John started to say, but Dean bulled right over him.

"I'll just grab my stuff and get the Impala ready. Most of your things are already in the truck, right?"

"Dean, I don't think-"

"Just give me a minute to throw on a fresh shirt, and we can hit the road. It's about time we caught a-"

"Dean!" John interrupted loudly. "You need to calm down for a minute and think!" Dean opened his mouth, confused, but John didn't pause. "Look at yourself. You're in no condition to drive right now!"

"Are you kidding me, Dad?" Dean asked, incredulous. "We've finally got a lead on these guys, and you want to hold up so I can get in a little beauty sleep? I'm fine!"

"I'm not risking you crashing and killing yourself because you were being too damned stubborn to recognize the state you're in!"

Dean spluttered indignantly. "We know where they are now, Dad! What if they move on? We'll have lost our chance, and for what?"

John hesitated, but only for a moment. "No, Dean. It's the middle of the night. They've probably holed up in a motel somewhere. They won't be going anywhere 'till morning."

"But-"

"Dean, I've already lost one son. I won't lose you too." If Dean hadn't known him better, he would have said there was a pleading note to John's words. "Two hours Dean, that's all I'm asking. Then we hit the road."

Dean looked away, the fight draining out of him. He really was tired, after all, and without the coffee crutch his eyelids were screaming at him to let them close. Sighing, he gave a quick, reluctant nod. John visibly relaxed, and clasped him on the shoulder.

"Two hours, then we'll track these fuckers down." he assured.

Dean carefully placed the laptop on the table and stripped off his shirt, then fell spread-eagled across his bed, not even bothering to climb under the sheets. Oh God, it felt good. He was already starting to drift off.

"If you don't wake me up in two hours Dad, I swear to God there'll be hell to pay," he mumbled into the pillow. He heard a quiet chuckle from John, but sleep enfolded him in her soft darkness before he could hear his reply.

* * *

It shouldn't be possible for an empty seat to look so inherently wrong. It was just a seat for God's sake! But fuck, that was where Sammy should be, curled up with some geek book and ignoring all of Dean's witty attempts to start up a conversation. He did his best to ignore it, staring determinedly at the shadowed road as his headlights cut great swaths through the blackness, but every so often he would find himself drawn to the vacant seat beside him, as though Sam's absence had left a vacuum behind, pulling his attention towards it whenever his concentration wavered.

It was just another reminder that he _so_ didn't need right now. It was hard enough simply to drive. The sleep he had grabbed, while rejuvenating, was nowhere near close enough to what he needed. He rolled the window down, letting the frigid wind blow through the car, and tried to keep his sight from blurring.

Thick night pressed in all around him as he drove, the brilliant stars like twinkling crystals of frost scattered across a velvet backdrop. Occasional clouds drifted across them, but they had left the fierceness of the storm behind them, and the moon had broken through at last. Dawn was still a couple of hours away, and the only sounds that came through the open window were the winds of his passage and the throaty hum of the engine beneath him. Up ahead, the back fender of John's truck glinted in the Impala's headlights, the chrome stark against the black body and blacker night. With the open road stretching out before him, the night wind running cool fingers through his spiky hair, and the Impala's familiar purr comforting in his ears, Dean was the closest to peaceful he had been in a long while. If it wasn't for that unoccupied space at his side, he might have gone so far to say that he was happy. _Dammit Sammy,_ Dean thought. _We're coming to get you, I promise. You just gotta hold on a little longer._

Suddenly the quiet within the car seemed unbearable with only nocturnal sounds to fill it. Reaching down, Dean chose a tape at random and shoved it into his player. AC/DC blasted out of his speakers, and he turned it up as high as his eardrums could stand, singing along with Brian Johnson as he belted out the first few lines of "Hell's Bells".

Dean sang until his throat was aching, and only then did he drop the music down to a more manageable level, blocking out the small voice that sounded an awful lot like Sam bitching him out for blaring his music when he was trying to sleep. Maybe when they got him back, Dean would let him choose what they would listen to. Only once of course, and just because of the special occasion. There was no way he would let some new rock crap of Sammy's replace his treasured collection of tapes.

Without warning, John's truck swerved, so violently he almost drove right off the road. Tires squealed as he overcorrected, back fender fishtailing wildly.

"Sonofabitch!" Dean cursed loudly, jerking the wheel to the side and slamming on the brakes to avoid a collision. "What the hell, Dad!" He patted the dashboard distractedly, murmuring an apology to his car for the uncouth treatment, but his attention was fixed on John, who had spilled gracelessly out of his truck and was now leaning against it, either not noticing or not caring that it was idling crookedly in the middle of the highway. Even as Dean watched, John seemed to crumple, sliding down to sit on the road as though his legs had given out.

"Dad?" Dean called, a brush of trepidation accompanying him as he climbed out of the car. "What's going on? What's the matter?"

John didn't move to acknowledge him. His head was buried in his hands, face obscured. Dean was bewildered. His dad had seemed so on top of things- well, as much as one could be considering the situation. But now, with his shoulders hunched, legs splayed out before him, John was the image of despair. _It finally got to be too much,_ Dean thought in horror. _It's taken awhile, but it's broken him._

"Dad?" he asked again, softer this time. He came closer, and faintly heard John whisper something inaudible through his fingers, still staring unseeing at the ground. "What? Dad, I don't-" Dean began, but then John raised his head to meet his eyes, and the words died in his mouth.

In his opinion, Dean knew his father better than pretty much anyone. He had practically lived in the same car as the man for sixteen years after all. He had seen John in every possible way: the grief and mindless drive for revenge after Mary died, the pride when he looked at his sons (even if Sam never seemed to notice), his rare displays of compassion, and just his day-to-day intelligence, determination, and brusque manner. Hunting with his father for years, seeing him shoot a werewolf in the chest, or thrown across a room by a ghost, it was impossible for Dean not to get to know him. Wasn't there some saying that a man's true character shows itself when he is about to die? Something like that anyway. So Dean felt he was pretty justified in saying that yes, he knew his father.

But now he wasn't so sure, because he had never seen John quite like this. The best word Dean could think of to describe the emotion swimming in John's gaze was _anguished_. Dean almost took a step back from its intensity, because his dad wasn't supposed to be like this. He wasn't supposed to radiate hopelessness from his very pores, or drop his head back into his hands with such an air of abject misery. His dad was supposed to be the strong one, the man who could fix any problem no matter how large, not this beaten figure at his feet.

"Dad, tell me what the fuck is going on!" Dean demanded, panicking a little, and trying to snap John out of whatever daze had caught hold of him. It appeared to work, at least in part. A shudder ran down John's body, but he straightened slightly from his bent over position and blew out a quivering breath.

"Josh just called," he finally said, in a hollow rasp. Dean stilled, a thousand possibilities flashing through his mind. _Oh God, he's dead, he's dead, he's dead, I know it, he's dead!_ his brain shrieked, repeating it in a maddening loop over and over in his mind. _No he's not_, he growled inwardly. _So shut your fucking mouth._

"He told me he found a group, almost a business I guess, and that Bennett and Cawfield are employed there." John's voice got, if possible, even lower, and Dean had to lean in to have a hope of hearing. "And this company, or whatever the hell it is..." John trailed off, refusing to meet Dean's eyes.

"What, Dad? What do they do!" Dean burst out, impatience overflowing, mixed with more than a little fear.

"They... they..." John couldn't seem to be able to form the words, let alone force them off his tongue. "They take kids and... and they-" He broke off again, blanching. Dean only realized he was holding his breath when his lungs started to burn. With a calm he didn't feel, he made himself exhale, then inhale, feeling like he was about to explode from the apprehension, and exercising every bit of self-control he had not to grab his father and shake the rest out of him. Instead, he restrained himself and waited till John could gather his thoughts. When he did speak, it was a pained whisper, a rush of air as though he needed to say it before he lost his composure.

"Josh said that they take kids and sell them. They sell them for-" he choked, and stumbled over the end of the sentence. "For pleasure," he finished, closing his eyes.

Dean stood shocked, the words sounding warped in his ears. He must not have heard it right. He _couldn't _have heard it right, because there was no way, no way in hell that was why Sammy had been taken. "You mean, like sex trafficking," he said dumbly, not fully processing the idea. It- it couldn't be. Not _Sammy_-

John gave a kind of gasp, fingers twisting themselves through his hair. Dean stared at him, then shook his head and stepped back. "He's wrong," he almost pled. "Josh must've got it wrong. Sam's not-" He couldn't complete the sentence. "No," he repeated.

"Dean..." John started, but Dean cut him off.

"No, Dad!" he barked angrily. "There isn't- Sam's _not_-" His thoughts were colliding with each other, sliding around, making no sense. A trembling was overtaking him, and he wasn't sure if it was disbelief, fright, rage, or some combination thereof. He spun on his heel and bolted back to his car, unable to stand John's pitying expression any longer. He slammed the door and peeled away from the shoulder, darted around the truck still parked drunkenly in the middle of the road, and tore off down the deserted highway.

A deafening roar filled his ears. His foot was pressed almost to the floor, and the speedometer needle was creeping higher and higher, but Dean didn't care. The motion of the car, and the wind slicing at his skin were no longer soothing. Far from calming him, these familiar sensations only served to remind him that _Sam wasn't there._ He wasn't sitting beside him, safe in the passenger seat, or telling Dean to slow down before he crashed and killed them both. He was gone, and the ones responsible were going to- Had maybe already _done_-

"God dammit!" Dean shouted, striking the steering wheel with the flat of his palm. _This was my fault!_ he thought, agonized. Why had he let Sam walk alone that day? Why hadn't he _noticed_ sooner that the kid hadn't come home, that something must be amiss? _How could you let them take you, Sam!?_ The question came with a burst of anger. _We taught you better than that!_

No. Dean stopped himself. This wasn't Sam's fault. He'd seen the video, and Sam had done the best he could. Dean felt ashamed for even entertaining the idea. No, if it was anyone's fault, it was his own. For letting the kid go off alone, for _still_ not being able to catch the bastards who'd taken him... How could he ever look Sam in the eye again, when he was to blame for allowing this to happen?

Dean's breathing was slowing. The emotions were there, of that there was no doubt, his white-knuckled grip on the wheel was evidence enough, but his head was clearing with the certainty of guilt. This was _his_ fault, _his_ responsibility, and it was _his_ job to get his little brother back. Losing it now wouldn't help Sam. Dean didn't have the right to lose it. It was difficult, but he eventually managed to subdue the burning river of anger, self-recrimination, and horror, so that rather than exploding out of him in scorching waves, it bubbled and popped just beneath his skin. Still present and still dangerous, yet contained for now.

Muttering another apology to the Impala, Dean eased his foot off the accelerator, and the blur of trees and grassy median separated into distinguishable features. The howl of the engine quieted, letting strains of music fill the cab from the tape player he had forgotten to turn off.

_I'll be guided in, we'll be ridin'_

_Given what you got to me._

_Don't you struggle, don't you fight,_

_Don't you worry 'cause it's your turn tonight!_

His momentary composure cracked as Dean's eyes shot open.

_Let me put my love into you babe,_

_Let me put my love on the line._

_Let me put my love into you babe._

_Let me cut your cake with my knife!_

Nasua churned in Dean's gut, and for a minute he thought he might be sick. The next instant, he _knew_ he was going to be sick. The smell of burnt rubber filled the air as he skidded to a halt, threw himself out of the car, and promptly emptied his stomach all over the bushes lining the side of the road.

By the time he was done, John's truck had pulled up next to him. Dean remained on hands and knees, shaking, as a car door opened then closed. A large hand rested comfortingly on the back of his neck and stayed there, letting him draw strength from John's unfaltering presence until he felt able to stand without his legs buckling. He turned, and met John's somber eyes.

"I'm alright now," he said, as though daring John to contradict it. "I'm good."

John nodded. "We're getting him back, Dean. No matter what, we're getting him back. I promise."

"Yeah, I know." Dean mustered up a grin, and if it looked more like a baring of teeth, well, it was the best he had right then. "Let's go find these sons of bitches."

Moments later, the sound of two revving engines broke the soft noises of branches rustling in the light breeze, and the two cars disappeared down the dark highway, the red glow of their tail lights glimmering like live coals until they were swallowed by the greedy shadows.

* * *

I guess I'm just going to do this all the time, so here are the questions for this chapter (wink wink nudge nudge *cough review cough*):

1) Was everyone in character? Why or why not?

2) Too much angst or too little? They always seem to beat themselves up so I don't know if I threw in enough :3

3) For the next chapter, would you guys prefer another one with Sam, or stay with Dean and John?

I really am trying to write this faster than I have been. Hopefully it will never take as long as it did for this chapter to be put up.


	9. Chapter 9

Oh God. Before anyone says anything, I know how long it's been and, don't worry, I feel incredibly guilty about it. Hopefully, this extra long chapter makes up for it, at least partially. Although I understand if you have given up on me completely because of how much time it took to get this out.

So, some people had the brilliant idea of doing a split chapter, so I went with that to please everyone! I tried to incorporate everything requested, and hopefully I didn't miss anyone or forget anything. Now it is summer, and I should really stop saying this, but I will try to be quicker with the next few chapters.

As a side note, I took a lot of literary license writing this, as I actually have no idea how modern day slavery works (which there is some out there, which is awful). I do not support any of this happening in real life, only in stories and fiction where it doesn't hurt any real people. But, sorry if anything seems a little weird or like it wouldn't happen that way.

Disclaimer: See previous chapters. I'm bored of rewriting this every time.

Warning: Language, rape of a minor, violence, angst, etc etc. You should know what to expect from this by now. For people who get offended or don't want to read the more graphic stuff, skip over any paragraphs that begin with hyphens (-) and are italicized. Enjoy!

* * *

_Hot breath ghosting over my skin. Hands grasping at my wrists, pushing me down, a heavy weight falling across me. I lash out blindly, but hit only air. Blackness, sticky and clotted, oozes into my mouth and nose, filling my throat, my ears, my eyes. I'm choking in it, drowning in it, and all the while fingers are tearing at my clothes, intent on taking what I desperately don't want to give. _Stop! _I try to scream, but the blackness is everywhere, everywhere, everywhere, flooding my lungs and twisting under my skin. My clothes are gone, a hand stroking my chest, brushing over my hips. I can't move. The blackness wraps around my neck, tighter and tighter, and the touches are moving lower and lower over my exposed skin... Make it stop, make it stop, make it _stop-!

I woke with a start and a smothered gasp, my eyes flying open. Phantom caresses lingered on my shoulders and chest, fading reluctantly as I fought back to consciousness.

The room was empty. Where Cheverill had been cuddled to my side were only tangled sheets. I lifted my head, and found that the wire around my wrists was gone as well. My shoulders were stiff and sore from holding their position for so long, protesting as I brought my arms down to my sides and looked around. The door to the hallway was closed, no sound reaching me in the quiet but that of my own breathing. A thick mist pressed against the windows, fat droplets clinging to the glass like barnacles to the side of a ship. The forest was completely hidden from view, leafy boughs lost somewhere in the fog. I let my head thump back onto the pillow and tried to feel some measure of relief. I was alone, given a moment to collect my thoughts, to find another way to make my escape.

The feelings wouldn't come. Maybe I was in shock, or maybe I was going through withdrawal from all the drugs Cole and Damien had pumped into me. Whatever the case, my emotions seemed to have been temporarily put on hold. I stared dully up at the ceiling, tracing the whorling patterns hidden in the cream-colored paint, and wondered why I should bother moving at all. It wasn't like it would change anything. It was time to face the facts.

Cheverill was bigger than me, stronger than me. He had God knew how many people working for him, all either unaware or uncaring about his kinky, fucked up sexual preferences, and all perfectly willing to drag me back by the hair if I did manage to get out of this damned room. I probably couldn't take three steps outside the house without tripping some security alarm, not that there was anyplace to go even once I could get into the trees. I was weak from days of confinement and not enough food, with no way to contact Dean or Dad. Oh, and lets not forget, I was wearing cuffs that fucking shocked me senseless whenever I so much as breathed wrong.

Talk about the odds being stacked. Resignation crushed down on me as these thoughts bounced around my brain. It struck me there that this would become my life now if I didn't do anything, trapped as a plaything in a gilded cage. I couldn't depend on Dean and Dad to come swooping in to save me. Even if they did manage to pick up my trail, it could be weeks before they pieced together where I was, and there was no way I could wait that long. Just the implication of another night here was enough to make my breathing stutter. I couldn't do that. Not again.

_-His finger pushing inside of me, teasing, only up to the first knuckle. "I really should have done this the first time," he whispers to me, like it's some intimate secret he's dying to share. "But I was just so excited to try you out. I'll be sure to prepare you better in the future." The burning pain spreading as his finger forces its way inside me, blood and come smearing across my skin when he adds a second, then a third-_

Somewhere close by, a door opened and shut loudly. I snapped to awareness, nearly jumping out of my skin as footsteps hurried down the hallway outside my door. Heartbeat suddenly pounding, I closed my eyes and took in a few halting breaths. _It's okay,_ I reassured myself in a voice that sounded uncannily like Dean. _He's gone now. Just relax. Don't think about it and then you can figure a way out of here._

_He'll be back soon though,_ I thought despairingly.

_Well you'll just have to get away before he does. There's gotta be a way out somewhere, _Imaginary Dean told me firmly.

_What if there is no way out though?_ I argued. _What if I'm stuck here forever, with _him_? I can't do this by myself!_

_Yes, you can_. _All you gotta do is keep trying. He has to have slipped up somehow._

_But-!_

_Self pity won't get you anywhere, Sammy._

Fuck, I was losing it. I actually felt a little sheepish and had to consciously stop myself from apologizing to a figment of my imagination. Imaginary Dean was right though. Or was I right, since technically he was a part of me? Whatever. Wallowing wasn't exactly my most productive course of action.

Groaning, because Goddammit I hurt _everywhere_, I sat up gingerly and swung my legs over the side of the bed, my ass deciding now was the perfect time to send pain spiking through my lower back. I hissed and squeezed my eyes shut, feeling tears threatening to gather. I'd really never thought about how much it would _hurt_. Not that I'd ever thought I'd be in this situation, ever.

I almost fell when I stood up completely, and had to grab the bed to keep my legs from folding under me. Even with the extra support my muscles were trembling. A confident wind probably could have blown me over. I sucked in another breath, quelling the rising nausea and locking my knees in place. The bathroom door could only be a couple feet away, but right then I was realistically doubtful about my ability to walk that far. Curling back up in bed and falling blissfully asleep was sounding better by the moment. I half-turned to crawl back onto the mattress, just for a minute or so -that's what I was telling myself anyway- before I caught sight of the large, reddish-brown blotch staining the area where I had been lying.

_-Blood soaking through the sheets, spreading out like a gory halo around me. At least he no longer has to thrust his way in quite so hard, though in some distant corner of my mind I wonder if I'll just bleed to death by the end of the night. That's possible, right?_

_A hand pressing hard against my balls brings me back, and I kick out feebly, even though I know it's useless. _

"_Didn't I tell you to enjoy yourself, Samuel?" he asks me, letting me go only to bite down just below my jaw, hard enough to break the skin. When he leans up to kiss me, roughly sucking my bottom lip into his mouth, I can taste the saltiness of my own blood run over my tongue-_

I hurled myself away from the bed, forcing back the stream of memories and shoving them as far behind my mental barricade as I could. I ended up on my hands and knees, retching, acutely aware of the tightness all over my ass and thighs from where blood and spunk had mixed and dried to a clingy coating. I needed to shower. Now.

I'm not sure how I made it all the way to the bathroom, but somehow I was leaning on the long counter, the tiles cool under my feet. I had to take a break, partly to get a handle on the ache radiating down my legs and up my back, and partly to figure out how in the hell I was going to actually shower when I could barely stand on my own.

Well, it would be a challenging experience, to say the least.

Once I had hobbled over to the shower (an impressive feat in itself), a film of sweat had sprung up on my forehead, and the nausea was back in full force. I can't imagine what I would have done if I had still been wearing clothes. Taking off a pair of pants had never seemed like such a task. Luckily, if you could see it that way, I was still naked from when Cheverill had torn mine away.

_-"Get _off _of me!" I shriek, trying to twist away from him yet again, but he just laughs, easily pinning me down. His thumbs stroke over my flaccid length, patiently coaxing me until I'm half-hard between his fingers. I don't even need to pretend this doesn't feel good anymore. I can't come again so soon, but I'm responding anyway, and he smiles as I whimper low in my throat, yanking at the wire fastened around my wrists- _

The water warmed up almost immediately. This shower was far more expensive than one I'd ever used before. There were three shower heads instead of one, the metal shining and clean and free of even a speck of rust. The tiled floor and walls were pristine, no part of the swirling blue and white pattern they created marred by stains or chipped edges. A shelf on the far side of it held clusters of colorful bottles, and I couldn't conceive how anyone could need them all. There was even a glass door that swung shut, rather than a bar and curtain. I thought about all of that as I stepped under the spray of water, stubbornly keeping my mind from straying to anything but the present.

I don't think a shower had ever felt so good in my life. I put out a hand to steady myself and snatched up a bar of soap with the other. The next few minutes were spent scrubbing furiously at my skin while I tried and failed not to notice what a mess I was. Dried red and white streaks were everywhere. Spreading outward up my chest and neck were more bruises, bites, and truly spectacular hickeys than I cared to acknowledge, much less count. They stung bitterly as the water rushed over them. My right shoulder was twinging, probably from when I had landed on it, and it was needless to say that each of these complaints paled next to the jagged fire that ripped through my insides every time I moved.

Cautiously, I reached behind me and ran light fingers over the small hole. They came back spotted with blood, pink droplets dripping off my hand and staining the tile beneath me. I stared at the ruddy water swirling around my feet, almost not realizing it when my throat closed up and a telltale prickle started behind my eyes. I grabbed for the soap again, rubbing it frantically over my thighs and groin, but I could still feel his semen on my skin, his hands holding me down. I choked back a sob, reaching for the shower knob and turning the temperature as hot as I could stand. Scalding water poured down all around me and I leaned into it, desperate for it to wash away everything Cheverill had done to me.

_-When he finally comes, I'm almost glad to feel the hot burst of liquid filling me yet again. Please God, let this be the last time. I don't know how much more of this I can stand. He pulls his softening dick out of me, and surely he's done. There is only so much stamina a man can have. _

_He sits up and stares at me through the dark, one hand resting casually on my inner thigh. With the other, he traces along a line of reddening bite marks he has left scattered across my sternum. I shift weakly, unable to completely stifle the pained grunt as the movement jars my new injuries._

"_It will get easier Samuel," Cheverill croons, almost sounding sympathetic. "I'm afraid I moved slightly faster than I should have tonight." His fingers tickle over my hip._

"_Go...to...Hell..." I whisper, barely loud enough to be heard over the rustle of sheets. I think my raspy croak surprises both of us. Not my most original quip, but it slips out before I can think about it._

_Cheverill is quiet for a minute, and I'm almost sure he is going to shock me -or maybe just go in for another round- when he throws his head back, laughing. He can't seem to stop, and several moments pass before he pulls his composure back and refocuses on me, still grinning._

"_Ah Samuel, you might be more of a project than I anticipated. How delightful."_

_It's hard, oh it's hard, but I collect as much saliva as I can and spit it into his face. The cuffs go off a second later, and when the pain clears it's to the knowledge that his hand is once again wrapped around my dick._

"_Such manners, Samuel," Cheverill chides, squeezing just enough to make me gasp and jerk up into his hand. "Must I really go over this lesson again?"- _

Water was splashing down all around me. I don't know when I slid to my knees, but somehow they were pressed to the smooth tiles, my arms wrapped around my chest as though to prevent the wrenching sobs from shaking me to pieces. Because dammit, I was crying like a whiny, six-year-old kid, there was no denying it. Tears streamed down my cheeks, mixing with the water and the snot my nose was leaking everywhere. My chest was heaving, letting out short, hiccuping breaths that caught in my throat and stuck there. If Cheverill saw me now, having a complete fit in his shower...

Christ, I needed to pull myself together, but I was full out bawling, and some part of me was so relieved to finally let go that I couldn't bring myself to stop. All the stress, all the fear, the uncertainty since Cole and Damien had snatched me, it was too much for me. I knelt there, letting the water cascade around me, and cried until I had no more tears to give.

When it was over I felt drained. Slowly, I uncurled from my position and stood up, amazed that the shower hadn't yet run cold. It was a funny thing to notice, given the circumstances. I lifted my face under the spray and let it wash away any remaining tears, then shut the water off and stepped out of the shower.

The bathroom was hazy with steam. I looked around for a towel, and my gaze landed on a small, folded pile resting on the damp countertop. I must have missed it when I stumbled in earlier.

A folded sheet of paper was lying on the top. I picked it up and saw _Samuel_ written across the front in a neat, confident hand. I swallowed hard, trying to allay the fine tremors travelling up my arms that made the paper shiver in my grip. Dammit, it was a freaking note! There was no way I should be afraid of a freaking note. I snorted, attempting to convince myself that I was fine, and opened it.

Samuel,

Thank you for a most engaging first night. I look forward to all the ones awaiting us. I will be gone for most of the day, and I suggest you shower while I am out. There is a towel provided for you as well as some clean clothes. They are your size, and I expect you to be wearing them when I return. Do not think that my absence gives you any permission to attempt to leave. The sooner you accept your new liberties, the happier you will be, I assure you.

Until tonight,

Your Master

A laugh bubbled out of me as I reached the end of the letter, though absolutely nothing about this situation could be funny. I crumpled the paper in my shaking hand and dropped it to the countertop, watching as it bounced off and landed on the floor. He couldn't be serious, right? Except that I knew perfectly well that he was, even when he signed it as "your master."

What was almost as frightening was that he could be completely sane. I might have understood his behavior if he had been a few fries short of a happy meal, but now I had to conclude that he was just a sadistic bastard with enough money fuel his fucked up fetishes. I laughed again. Fucking awesome.

I dried off quickly with the towel on top of the pile, a soft, fluffy thing that anywhere else I would have prized as a rare treat. Afterwards, I swiped a corner of it across the clouded mirror and took a moment to examine myself fully. Even without the obvious marks bruising my chest and groin, I looked awful. My eyes were swollen and red from my long bout of crying, a wild, cornered demeanour reflecting out of them. There was an edge of wariness to the set of my shoulders that had never been there before, as though I would bolt at any sudden disturbance. I could almost have been a feral animal, backed into a corner and unable to hide its panic.

A familiar clogged feeling constricted my throat, and I blinked hurriedly at the renewed burn behind my eyes. No, I wouldn't cry, not again. I had already had my moment to indulge myself, but enough was enough. I wouldn't give up after one damn night. I didn't care what Cheverill threatened, I was finding a way to escape, and sniveling wasn't going to help me. I was done with it.

I turned away from the mirror and picked up what remained of the pile. Apparently, Cheverill's definition of "clothes" was one pair of jeans with nothing else, not even boxers. As much as I was loathe to wear anything he had chosen for me, the only alternative was walking around naked, and there was no way in hell that was going to happen.

I donned the jeans, and it immediately became clear that when Cheverill said "they are your size," what he really meant was, "they should be indecently stretched over your crotch and ass." The sleeves weren't too bad, if slightly tight in places, but once they reached the area around my groin, the jeans seemed to lose a quarter of the cloth they would have needed to fit normally. Even without an erection, the bulge in front where my cock was pressed against the fabric was impossible to miss.

Oh no. No way in fucking hell was I wearing these. They made me look like some kind of cross between a stripper and a streetside prostitute. Maybe I could find the pants I'd had on yesterday if they hadn't been torn too badly. I didn't care that Cheverill wanted me to wear these. He could go screw himself. I wasn't afraid of what he might do if he knew I had disobeyed him. I was definitely _not_. I was going to go find my pants from yesterday, and he wouldn't be able to do a damn thing about it.

I had only opened the bathroom door about halfway, still silently giving myself a confidence boosting pep talk, when I realized that someone was standing right in front of it and my heart nearly stopped dead in my chest. A strangled, "Holy _fuck_!" burst from me, and I slammed the door as hard as I could, feeling my carefully contained terror break free and smash my composure to bits. A sob hitched in my chest as I fumbled for the latch, blind panic creeping like fog over my eyes. There had to be a razor in here right? Maybe I could find one before Cheverill got the door unlocked, or I could break the mirror and use a shard of it as a knife! My attention skittered around the room for anything that could be used as a weapon, every nerve aware of how vulnerable I was with nothing to defend myself.

A heavy fist knocked on the door. Almost hyperventilating, I threw myself against it, already imagining Cheverill forcing it open, triggering my collar and cuffs until he could pin me down on the tiled floor and-

"Kid! Kid, goddamnit, open up!" The voice reached me through the door. An impatient voice that was low and businesslike. A voice that was distinctly not Cheverill's. "C'mon kid, I haven't got all day!"

It wasn't him, it was okay, it wasn't him. _It wasn't him_. Not yet anyway. But it still wasn't him and I was safe for now, because it wasn't him. But then a loud thud echoed from the other side of the door, reminding me sharply that Cheverill wasn't the only thing I had to worry about. I cleared my throat and, doing my best to sound aggressive and tough, called, "who the hell are you?"

"My name's Carter," the guy replied, and I flashed back to a tall man slinging me to the ground in front of the house, his beefy arms wrapping around my neck until I blacked out. I wedged myself even more firmly against the door.

"What do you want?" I snarled. "You hoping to have your own turn with me too, is that it?"

"No," he said immediately. His tone grew softer as he added, "look, I just need to check you over, make sure nothing's been hurt too bad, alright?"

I leaned my head back against the door, feeling my eyes starting to sting. No, damn it I said I was done crying. "Of course," I said bitterly. "After all, blood is such a bitch to keep washing out of the sheets."

"I'm sorry," Carter said after a moment, and to my surprise he actually sounded like it. "but I've got to get this done and this can be painless for everyone if you cooperate. Now open the door so I don't have to use your collar to make you."

Fuck, he probably would too. Still, I held back, wanting nothing more than to collapse into bed and sleep so that I didn't have to deal with all this crap. I heard Carter sigh, and hastily pulled the door open. This wasn't giving in, I told myself. This was knowing which battles to fight.

"Just get it over with," I growled, scowling at him with a bravado I did not feel. I did my best not to blush as his gaze skipped over my bruised chest and skimpy jeans. Though his expression didn't change, I was almost sure I saw his jaw tighten subtly.

"I'll need you to take off your pants," he coughed, strangely contrite for someone willing to work for a pedophile. "Then lie facedown on the bed. Please."

I glared. This sounded an awful lot like Carter just wanted me in a good position for an easy fuck. I edged back a step, half considering another flight to the safety of the bathroom. Carter noticed, and threw his hands up irritably. "Christ kid, I'm not going to hurt you! Unless you make this difficult, which you're about to do!" Gee, that was reassuring. He took in my skeptical expression and rolled his eyes. "I'm not going to try to attack you either, so relax."

Yeah, right. Did he seriously think I was that gullible? When I made no move towards the bed, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, metallic-colored object, almost like a remote, and held it threateningly where I could see it. "Listen kid. I'd rather not use this, but I've got other things to do. So you either undress and lay down on the bed, or I'll turn on your collar and do it for you. Your choice."

"Fuck you," I gritted out, hating myself and hating him and hating the whole screwed up situation even as I started towards the bed. My hands felt cold as I unbuttoned my jeans and slid them off. By contrast, my face burned in humiliation, the sheets soft against my stomach when I bent over them. My face was inches away from the mattress, and the reek of blood and sweat caught in the blankets was probably going to make me sick unless Carter hurried his ass up.

"That's good. Stay like that." I sensed Carter come up behind to me, and couldn't stop myself from flinching as his hands spread me open. Oh God, what if he was lying and he really did want a turn with me? He wouldn't get a better opportunity. The light touch of a finger at my entrance made me jerk, and I heard a distracted "sorry," from over my shoulder. My own pulse was loud in my ears, and every miniscule shift Carter made seemed magnified by a thousand. I kept waiting to hear the sound of his zipper sliding down, feel his blunt head replace the finger, and if he was going to do it why didn't he just _do_ it already before my nerves couldn't take any more?

"Okay, nothing looks too bad." Carter let go and stepped back. My breath left me in a rush and I twisted away from him, tugging my jeans back up around my hips and not entirely ready to believe that was all he was going to do. But he let me go, watching with the barest hint of sadness as I redid the buttons with unsteady fingers.

"Is that it?" I asked roughly, not meeting his eyes. "'Cause, you know, I've got a lot of stuff to do, and everything." Wow, that was some bad humor. At least I was trying.

"Yeah, that's it. There's a bit of tearing, and I'll have to put some ointment on it periodically so it doesn't get infected." I flushed again. My face must have been a blazing scarlet. If this guy thought he was getting near me with ointment of any kind, someone needed to set him straight as soon as possible. "Some bruising, but overall you'll be fine."

I repressed a snort. He hesitated for a moment, watching me, then continued. "You'll be sore for a bit, and sitting probably won't be too comfortable. I'll tell Mr. Cheverill to go a little easier next time so nothing gets worse."

"Right," I whispered. _Next time._ "Awesome. Thanks." I still wouldn't look at him, and after an awkward pause he headed for the door.

"For what it's worth kid, I really am sorry," he murmured. Then he was gone, and I was alone. Again.

* * *

God, Dean loved motels. They never had the good sense to buy locks that, you know, locked. Any amateur with a hairpin could open them with enough determination. Well, it was either lack of sense or their complete apathy towards the welfare of their guests. Either way, the lock clicked open so easily Dean almost felt abashed for giving his tools such menial work.

"Got it?" John hissed to him.

"Dad please, I'm a professional. Don't insult me." Dean gave a quick nod to his father and slipped inside the now-open motel room. Josh pushed himself away from the wall where he'd been leaning, nonchalantly blocking the view of the door from the rest of the parking lot, and followed.

Inside, it was dark. A digital clock glowed weakly from somewhere on the right, but the curtains were drawn, shutting out the icy moonlight. As Dean's eyes adjusted, he could make out two beds just to the side of the door, and past that the obscure shapes of an ill-equipped kitchenette. To his left was a table and a couple of hard backed chairs. A standard issue motel room then, no different than what he was used to.

"Okay, let's move fast," John whispered, nothing but a black silhouette at his side. "We don't know when they'll be back."

They split up, each taking a side of the room. Dean went to the bed farthest from the door first, which was noticeably more messy. Riffling through the crumpled blankets, scratchy sheets yielding nothing but stains of questionable natures, Dean would've bet this one was Cawfield's. Covering his flashlight with one hand, he sank to his knees and shone it under the bed. The dampened light swept across muddy brown carpet, but nothing else.

"Anything yet?" John's hushed voice asked from over by the kitchenette.

"No. You?"

"No."

Frustrated, Dean clambered back to his feet and reached for the table situated between the two beds, sliding open the drawers and poking through the papers inside.

After the episode on the highway, the drive to Newark had passed in a blur. Trying to wrap your head around the fact that your little brother had been kidnapped by modern day slavers wasn't something you could reconcile yourself with in a few minutes. Dean had spent the entire trip agonizing over everything he'd ever heard of sex trafficking, and swearing to himself every time an image popped into his head of Sam, on his knees or strapped to a bed, the shadow of some guy falling over him, just before Sam's shirt was cut off and- This was usually where Dean stopped himself as he realized what he was doing. Fucking imagination.

Once they had rolled into Newark, it hadn't been too hard to track Cawfield and Bennett to the little motel they were staying at. John and Dean had staked out the room for a good four hours before seeing the two men leave, much to Dean's malignance. He was all for kicking down the door and maybe shooting out the two men's kneecaps. That way they couldn't run away until they'd spilled everything they knew about Sam.

Both John and Dean thought it unlikely that Sam would still be with Bennett and Cawfield. They had stayed put for nearly a week after catching him, and the only reason for that would be to sell him off as rapidly as they could. Besides, Dean highly doubted that the trunk of Bennett's little Accord would be practical for carting kids from one place to another.

So while it grated Dean to sit leisurely while his little brother could be halfway across the country, he understood John's order to wait. If they could find something in the motel room telling them where to find Sam, it would be a whole lot quicker than attempting to get it out of the two men, although less satisfying. But that was only if the room had anything to offer. So far, all Dean had come up with was a pad of motel stationary and the listing for the local Dominoes.

But hey, they might get to do this the fun way after all. Dean straightened from his examination of the second bed, only to drop back to the floor at John's urgent command.

"Dean, down!"

The rumble of a car engine punctuated the end of the sentence. Seconds later, headlights shone through the wispy curtains, and the muffled crackle of tires over asphalt sounded from the parking lot.

"Quick, follow me." John's shadow ghosted past him. They lined up on either side of the door, guns gleaming like wicked promises in their hands. The headlights cut out, then two doors slammed, one after the other.

"I'm telling you man, this is crap!" an insolent voice complained, filtering without difficulty through the paper thin walls. "Why the hell are we running another job so soon? If Julien wants another sale he can go out and fucking do it himself!" Another man, too low to be heard, interjected something in a soothing tone. "No, I'm not going to keep my voice down!" the first said angrily. "This is 'cause he's pissed how slow business has been, and now he's takin' it out on us!"

"Well, what would you rather do, hmm?" the second man asked, this time close enough that Dean could make him out. He sounded exasperated, as though they'd already had this conversation a hundred times before and his tolerance had run out somewhere in the forties.

Keys jangled as the first man answered. "Well we could stop taking so much of his shit, for one!" Sickly light spilled into the room from the sputtering street lamps outside. Dean's grip on his gun tightened as the first man stepped into the room. "You'd think he'd be happier after we got rid of that last pain-in-the-ass. We gave him a nice little payday, and how does he thank us? By sending us out to-"

He was still whining when the butt of John's gun cracked into the back of his head. He collapsed to the floor without a sound, the flow of words abruptly cut off, and it was most likely that more than anything that clued his partner in to the fact that something was wrong. The fluorescent glow from the parking lot sparkled off a gold earring, the whites of Bennett's eyes clearly visible as he spun on his heel and bolted. Dean cursed and took off after him, trusting his dad to handle the other.

Bennett didn't even make it to the end of the row of doors before Dean caught him in a flying tackle. They crashed to the ground with Dean on top. The guy's knee came up between his legs, and pain exploded through Dean's crotch. He gasped but held on, trying to smack the other man's head back against the concrete.

The gun had flown from his hand when they'd landed, and both saw it at the same time. There was a mad scramble; Dean got in a few solid punches to Bennett's face, but the guy's elbow came free and hit him just over his eye. Dean jammed his forearm into the guys windpipe in retaliation, leaving Bennett stunned and gaping for air. While he was occupied, Dean rolled sideways, fingers closing around the handle of the gun, and brought the muzzle up to focus right in the middle of the guy's chest.

"Don't move!" he barked. "Unless you want your guts spread out over the concrete!" Bennett froze, panting harshly through what looked like a broken nose. Eyeing him warily, in case he tried to make another run for it, Dean grabbed a handful of Bennett's shirt and yanked him upright, gun pressed unwaveringly to his stomach.

"Now, you're going to do exactly what I say so I don't blow a hole through your intestines, right?" Dean said, cocking the hammer pointedly. The guy nodded furiously, flinching as the gun dug into his abdomen. "Good," Dean said, and punched the guy square in the jaw, knocking him out cold. "Fucking dick."

Another reason Dean loved motels was that nobody ever interfered in other people's business. He'd always speculated on what the people watching would say: Hey, was that a fistfight going on outside? Holy hell, did that guy have a _gun_? Oh well, I'm sure they'll work it out. It's probably just a friendly little spat. Dean got Bennett back to their room without anyone stopping him and asking why the hell he was hauling a bruised and bleeding man across the sidewalk with a pistol tucked under his jacket. It didn't hurt that Bennet and Cawfield had chosen the least frequented motel in Newark.

John looked up as Dean entered. His eyes immediately fell on the bruise where Bennett's elbow had clipped him, and he was across the room in the time it took to blink, tilting Dean's face towards the light. "How bad is it?" he asked roughly.

Dean shook him off. "Dad, seriously? I'm fine!" He prodded the bruise gingerly. "I don't think this will kill me after all the times I've been chucked through walls."

"Right. Sorry." John turned away, looking slightly embarrassed. "You have the other one?"

"Of course."

"Bring him over here," he ordered, bending to recheck the knots around Cawfield's wrists. Dean complied, and soon they had Bennett and Cawfield bound tightly to chairs placed back-to-back in the middle of the room. Ropes snaked around their wrists, chests, and ankles, and as a final touch, John tore up part of a sheet and stuffed a wad of the cloth in each man's mouth.

"So these are the bastards," Dean said when John had finished. John merely grunted. Dean glanced over at him, then had to look away at once. He fervently hoped his dad would never look at him with the expression he was wearing now, because the unbridled fury smoldering in his eyes was nothing short of terrifying. The phrase "glaring daggers" didn't even come close to describing it. Maybe "glaring Hell's wrath," or "glaring nuclear warheads," or "glaring Hell's wrath in the form of nuclear warheads" would have been more accurate.

Ducking his head, Dean averted his gaze and turned it on Bennett and Cawfield instead. They were just as they had appeared in the pictures. Cawfield was blonde and muscular, arms bulging from rolled up sleeves and sideburns running down each side of his face. His chin was resting on his chest, giving Dean the view of a raw lump on the back of his skull where he'd gotten friendly with the handle of John's gun. Bennett was smaller and darker, face already puffing from his scuffle with Dean. Blood dripped from his nose over narrow lips and a pointed chin.

Loathing surged within Dean as he appraised the two men. These were the sons of bitches responsible for everything he and his family were going through. Especially Sam. Whatever state they found his little brother in, it was these fuckers fault. And if Sam was anything other than perfect when they found him, he was going to come back and put a bullet in both of their heads. That was if he didn't do it now purely on principle. Who knew how many kids had disappeared because of these two? How many families ruined? Dean really wished they'd wake up soon. They needed to be taught a thorough lesson in remorse.

He was so absorbed in fantasies of how he would make the two men talk that John had to snap his fingers in front of his face to get his attention. "Dean! Come on, stay with me. We've still got some work to do. Can you go check out the car?"

"Car.. right, right the... what?"

"The car!" John repeated impatiently. "I need you to go check out their car, see if you can find anything."

"Oh! Right. Sorry sir," Dean said, properly chagrined.

"I'll finish up in here," John continued. "If they look like they're wakin' up I'll call you back in, okay?"

"Yes sir!" He caught the keys John threw him one-handed and got to his feet. The night breeze was chilling as he shut the door behind him. Trapped by the walls of the motel, it swirled in confused eddies, dragging twigs and dirt behind it, grabbing at the flaps of his jacket. Overhead, the stars were small and dim, shy in the face of the harsh city lights. Dean shivered. The whoosh of cars passing on the interstate only a couple hundred yards away accompanied him as he unlocked Bennett's blue Accord and swung inside, relieved to be out of the cutting wind.

The cab was relatively clean, both for trash and any useful findings. He found a registration for one "James Cooper" in the glovebox, and a couple of fast food wrappers dumped in the passenger side footwell. The car was a tiny two seater, and he spent all of five minutes hunting through it. When he finally climbed back into the open air, Dean was freezing and antsy. The bastards wouldn't be stupid enough to leave anything incriminating lying around. This would be so much faster if they just woke them up and used some good old intimidation tactics instead. _It's not like they wouldn't deserve it_, Dean groused to himself as he went around to check out the trunk.

There were three duffel bags inside. Dean tossed through the first carelessly, throwing clothes and toiletries every which way. As he'd suspected, nothing presented itself as being secretly villainous.

It was only once he'd unzipped the second one that he got his first reward. Although reward was likely not the word to describe the glint of handcuffs poking out innocently from between a pair of socks. Oh, those sneaky fucks. Straining to see in the low light, Dean gathered all the balled up pairs of socks he had pulled from the first duffel and unrolled them. Out of the six pairs, two had sets of handcuffs cushioned within. Combined with the number he found in the second bag, there were five pairs total.

"Sonofabitch," he growled, setting them all to the side. He searched a bit more thoroughly after that, but it turned out to be the third duffel when he hit the jackpot. He would have missed it too, if he hadn't taken the entire bag out of the trunk and dumped its contents on the ground for convenience. He cast the duffel aside, and a conspicuously un-clothlike clang sounded as it hit the pavement.

"The hell?" he muttered, snatching it back up and flipping it over. It looked like a normal bag, only now he realized that it shouldn't be this heavy with nothing inside. Moments later, a grin spread across his face as his fingers found the concealed catch at the foot of the duffel. Two flaps had been expertly sewn on, creating a false bottom that left the last few inches of space free, and Dean settled on the lip of the trunk to undo them. He found two things inside.

The first was a flat, silver box that rattled as he lifted it out. He raised the lid, and discovered the source: a number of unmarked glass vials, all slotted into their own compartment like a seamstress' container for storing different colored threads. A collection of hypodermic needles was lying ready alongside. There was a sour taste in Dean's mouth as he pulled out one of the vials, the brightness from the streetlights refracting through the clear liquid within as he held it up. _Pretty damn easy to control a kid when he's too drugged out to know what's going on,_ he thought. It wasn't hard to imagine a needle sliding through the delicate skin of Sam's arm, puncturing the vein beneath and his wide eyes, defiance masking the fear, slowly drooping shut as he lost the fight for consciousness.

Dean shoved the vial back into its slot, sickened, and sorely tempted to hurl the entire thing across the lot and listen to the glass shatter. Except then John would notice. And he was already convinced that Dean was falling apart. Which he _wasn't_.

He could still throw it. The satisfaction would be worth it. But that would not help convince his father that he was keeping it together. The man already treated him with a surprising gentleness (well, what passed for gentleness with John), as though Dean wasn't strong enough to pull through this on his own. He was, of course -he fucking _was_- but John obviously didn't think so. To be honest, Dean couldn't decide whether this newfound concern was annoying, touching, or plain freaky. But it was definitely awkward. John Winchester was not the sharing and caring type.

Not that he was dealing with this any better than Dean, the hypocrite. Dean could tell this was hitting him hard. It was evident in the drinking, the way he switched from stifling concern for Dean one moment and obsessive searching for Sam's kidnappers the next. No, Dean knew his father, and the man was not taking this well. He was simply better at hiding it than Dean. But, either way, if Dean wanted him to stop acting as though Dean was an emotional time bomb about to go off, Dean would just have to prove to him that he was a stable fucking rock of level-headedness. Which he fucking _was_. But it also meant he couldn't go around destroying things because he couldn't hold his temper in check. Even if the things he was destroying had hurt Sammy, and it would be so incredibly satisfying to smash these damn little vials under his boots... But no. John would most certainly not be impressed by that.

So Dean set the box aside and reached for the other item hidden in the bottom of the duffel. It was, of all things, a scrapbook, which was more than a little weird. Dean hadn't taken Bennett or Cawfield to be the type, what with them being amoral, cowardly, kidnapping douchebags and all. He flipped it open, rough paper rubbing against his fingertips. It was never that easy, but maybe they had a handy list tucked in the pages of all their customers or something. Yeah, _Mr. So-and-so, for the order of one way-more-trouble-than-he's-worth little brother. Here is his address, his list of weaknesses, and all the ways it's possible to break into his house. Oh, and just for fun, here's a list of any security measures he has and how to disarm them._ Yeah. That'd be nice right about now.

But that wasn't what Dean found. That wouldn't have made his blood run cold and his stomach clench in horror. Because looking back at him from the very first page was the face of a child. He couldn't have been more than seven, with curly blonde hair and huge, liquid brown eyes, like a doe's. He was crying, fat tears leaving salty trails down his cheeks, one of which was discolored by a large, purple bruise. All he was wearing was a pair of baggy, oversized sweatpants. His hands were cuffed cruelly in front of him, and Dean could see the angry looking marks where the metal had cut into the boy's skin.

But that worst thing wasn't any of that. It was the fact that the child was cowering, practically fainting with fright, and with such an expression of confusion on his chubby features, like he couldn't possibly understand why someone would do this to him, or what he had done to deserve it.

For a long, long minute, Dean simply sat there, staring at this lost, little boy that he would never meet, who had likely died long ago. Then, with labored breathing and white-knuckled fists, he flipped through the rest of the book, letting his eyesight blur and a tinge of red distort everything he saw.

The photographs filled every page. Picture after picture of children, mostly boys, dozens of kids who had been sold by Bennett and Cawfield. The youngest could have only been about four, while the oldest boys were maybe seventeen or eighteen. All were shirtless, and all wore the same expression of terrified bewilderment as the first. About two thirds of the way through, Dean had to stop and walk to the edge of the parking lot, staring up at the star littered sky and focusing on the frigid wind cutting through his clothes like knives. Vomiting was feeling more and more appealing, but he had to see. He had to know, beyond all doubt.

He finally found it, the very last picture before the scrapbook pages ran blank. It might have been one of the hardest things he'd ever done, to make himself look down and meet Sam's eyes.

His brother stared blearily back at the camera, arms stretched up above his head. Like the others, his chest was bare, though Dean could see the waistband of his pants at the very bottom of the frame. Small comfort. Dean's teeth clenched as he examined the blossoming bruise across Sam's cheek and jaw, centered around a reddened, shallow cut. He wondered which of the two men currently tied up in the motel room behind him was wearing the ring that would match up to it. Whichever it was- Dean was looking forward to the time he could settle down with the man and repay the favor.

Sam's eyes were glazed and unfocused, dilated pupils surrounded by the slimmest ring of hazel. Dean had expected him to be apprehensive or scared, even outraged. What he didn't expect was for Sam to be standing passively, looking like he couldn't have cared less if these freaks chained him to the ceiling and took his picture. Dean flashed to the silver box and the vials inside. Fuck, what if they'd gotten Sam hooked on something, like heroin or crack? Dean had heard of the before, right? They got the kids addicted so that they had to stick around for their next fix. The thought of Sammy, strung out and begging for another hit with sunken, puppy dog eyes...

Dean dropped the book from frozen fingers. Something like fire was burning through him. That couldn't happen, not to Sam. He wouldn't let it. Except he couldn't stop it. Sam was gone, and anything could happen without Dean being able to do a damn thing.

Dean stood blindly, the muscles all along his arms straining with the need to _do_ something. He wanted to run until his legs wouldn't support him, or find something to break into a million pieces with his bare hands. He wanted to go inside and make those two men hurt as much as he was hurting. And then he wanted to hurt them beyond that, because nothing, _nothing_ could hurt them as much as the pain eating away at Dean's chest. He thought it might tear him apart from the inside.

But really, all he wanted was his brother.

He was pacing, he realized, back and forth across that damned abandoned lot. Long legs devouring the ground in front of him, trying to distract him, trying to feel something other than the gaping hole in his heart. The hole that Sam had left. Faster and faster, until he was sprinting across the crumbling asphalt, over and over and over again, until sweat poured down his back and sides, his lungs heaved for breath, and the taste of coppery blood coated the back of his throat.

An image flickered in front of his eyes, of that last night before Sam had disappeared. Of his head thrown back as he laughed at Dean spitting out his mouthwash. His hazel eyes had been crinkled ever so slightly at the edges, dimples out in full force. The gangly arms that he had yet to grow into wrapped around his stomach to hold in his glee. He had looked so carefree, so _alive_. That Dean would never make him laugh again, or that he would never grow into the powerful man he was meant to be...

It was only when Dean thought that his heart would give out if pushed any farther that he felt the wetness streaking down his cheeks. Which meant the only thing he could do was to run faster, because maybe then he could leave all his crippling emotions somewhere in the miles he put behind him.

* * *

Hmm... Well I can't actually think of any questions right now... If you want to review it's awesome and always appreciated though! And for everyone who has stuck with me, thank you. I'm working on the next chapter to get it up as soon as possible, because let's be honest, you guys deserve it.


	10. Chapter 10

Just... Just take it...

Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot and the OC's. Supernatural belongs to Kripke and CW and whoever else.

Warnings: Oh God, ok umm: Violence, lotta swearing, violence again, abuse, and graphic rape of a minor.

* * *

The paperweight sat cold and heavy in my hand. It was an ugly thing, all twisted metal and sharp edges. Obscure silhouettes were etched across its surface, a clawing arm here, a grimacing face there, like the souls of the damned chasing an absolution that was just out of reach. Every time the outline of a tortured limb caught the light, it sent shivers of unease down my spine. But it was bulky and dense, and would hopefully fulfill the task I had in mind for it. Deliberately, I ran the pad of my thumb over one of the jutting protrusions, metal slick under my touch.

I had parked myself in Cheverill's desk chair, albeit gingerly. Carter had been right when he'd said sitting wouldn't be the most comfortable position. The paperweight was gripped rigidly in my right hand, while my left had been laid across the top of the desk, palm down. The cuff clasped around my wrist winked innocuously at me, pale against dark wood and tan skin. Though I had only been wearing them for two days at most, I could already feel the rawness of the chafed areas beneath. I loathed them. They had become a symbol of my subjugation, and of Cheverill's power over me. They were the obstacle I had to overcome to get out of this hellhole.

My fingers tightened around the paperweight and I lifted it above my head, the corners digging lightly into my palm. I wasn't foolish enough to think I could smash the soldering out of the cuffs' tiny keyholes, not with the tools I had at my disposal, so the hinges were my next best bet. I wasn't completely confident that breaking the hinges would work, but until I came up with something better it was worth a shot. With as much power as I could garner, I brought the paperweight down on the hinges of my left cuff with a _clang!_ that reverberated through my entire arm. My lip twisted in a grimace as I raised my wrist to examine the damage to the cuff. Not even a scratch. Fine, if it wanted to be stubborn. Two could play at that game.

I repositioned my arm and smashed the paperweight into the hinges. Another _clang!_ vibrated around the room. Shockwaves hummed through my bones, making me grit my teeth in discomfort. If the sound of nails on chalkboard could be a sensation, that's what it felt like as I hefted the paperweight again.

_Clang!_

Once I got the bracelets off, it would be harder to treat the collar to the same, but I was confident I could do it. Even if I'd have to use the mirror in the bathroom to see where I was aiming. It would be cruel irony to be rid of the cuffs, only to suffocate through a crushed windpipe. When they were all off, I would open the window like I had before and simply follow through with my original plan.

_Clang!_

A mist still clung tenaciously to the boughs of the trees. As soon as I reached the edge of the mansion grounds I would be able to vanish into it without a trace. Although I would need to find a new set of clothes. The stripper costume Cheverill gave me was going to be burned at the first feasible opportunity. I would have already changed clothing if Cheverill hadn't rigged the cuffs to activate when I opened the closet door. I guess he didn't want me making anymore lock picks.

_Clang!_

My only concern was that someone would spot me making a break for it. Through no stretch of the imagination could I claim that I was in full health. For God's sake, I couldn't even _walk_ straight, what with the pain that flared in my lower back every time I took a step. A confrontation with Carter could only end badly, and if he did catch me I had no doubt that Cheverill would not take kindly to my latest escape scheme. I shuddered as I lifted the paperweight. No, Cheverill would not like that at all.

Surely this damn cuff was close to breaking. It had to be weakening, at least! I slammed the paperweight down yet again, and discovered that no, the cuffs were not weakening. All I had succeeded in doing was pissing them off. A sudden blaze of electricity exploded through them, eliciting a yelp from me before my vocal chords froze and my throat seized helplessly. The paperweight fell from my nerveless grasp and I struggled to stay conscious, liquid lightning clamping down on every muscle and raking them over white hot coals.

I came to slumped over the desk. The neat piles of paper stacked across it had been scattered every which way by my flailing, once-crisp sheets now crinkled and bent. I sucked a tremulous breath into my aching lungs and closed my eyes. Much as I would have loved to believe that it had been a fluke, a random mishap of crossed wires or a short circuit, I knew better. The cuffs were set to activate if attacked like that. How the hell Cheverill had programmed them to know when that was, I had no clue, but it didn't really matter either way.

My eyes snapped open and I pounded a fist onto the desk, a snarl of fury contorting my face. Was it impossible for one thing to go my way? Breathing heavily, I sat and glared at the cuff, wrestling with the part of myself that just wanted to break down and wail. I wasn't _that_ emotionally unstable, goddamnit.

I reviewed the facts in my head. The cuffs prevented me from leaving this room, therefore the cuffs needed to come off. The only way that would happen was if the hinges could be broken, as the soldering prevented me from picking the miniscule locks. And lastly, if I didn't crush the hinges, get the cuffs off and escape, I would be at the mercy of a ruthless lunatic for the remainder of my (probably very short) life. _So_, I told myself sternly. _Stop complaining and get back to it. Sitting here won't do any good at all._

I straightened and picked up the paperweight from where I had dropped it. The indistinct faces pushing out through the metal looked as though they were leering up at me. Creepy thing. Who the hell bought a paperweight like this anyway? I ignored their mocking expressions and placed my arm on the desk, readying myself. I would have to hit it with all I had. I didn't want to endure more shocks than absolutely necessary. I readjusted my hold on the paperweight, and then again as my clammy palms made the crevices greasy with sweat.

Maybe I could find another way, I reasoned to myself as my hand refused to descend. I hadn't really tried to pick a soldered lock before. There was no way it was _that_ hard. Or hey, maybe if I soaked the cuffs for long enough they would short circuit. It was completely irrelevant that they worked after my shower anyway. The shower hadn't even been _that_ wet. Or maybe-

_Shut up and hit the damn cuff, you idiot!_

My arm jerked down, ending with the loud ringing of metal on metal. I braced myself for the inevitable backlash, but even knowing what was coming didn't prevent the cry being wrenched from my throat as the cuffs burst ardently into life. I could barely feel the chair slipping out from beneath me, spasms running the length of my body. I landed hard on my side on the polished wood floor. One of my kicking legs caught the nearest desk leg, sending a shower of office supplies tumbling down around me. My voice broke on the next yell, and seriously, weren't the people who worked here ever in the least bit disturbed by the constant screams coming from their employer's bedroom?

Blackness was fluttering around the fringes of my vision by the time the cuffs switched off. A line of drool had worked its way down my chin and I wiped it away with a trembling hand, squeezing my eyes shut as the room spun alarmingly. I drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly, then twice more before I was convinced I wouldn't throw up all over myself. As I rolled over onto my stomach (at least if I vomited, it might as well do some good and stain Cheverill's floor), I decided that perhaps this getaway plan needed to be revised. Heavily.

A hard ridge was poking into my right hip. I shifted irritably, eyes still closed. I was exhausted, both from last nights... activities, and from my emotional paroxysm in the bathroom. It wouldn't be too much of a leap to say that adding high amounts of voltage to the mess might not be too beneficial. I twitched again. What the hell was I lying on anyway? Lazily, my hand drifted down to prod disinterestedly at the offending intrusion. Round, thin, cold. Stupid thing. Couldn't it see I just wanted to rest a minute without it making little jabs at my stomach every time I breathed? I pulled it out lethargically and brought it around in front of my unfocused eyes.

The wood was smooth against my cheek as I blinked dumbly at it, absorbing the miniature hilt and dull blade without a shred of comprehension. _Why would he have a tiny sword on his desk? That's silly of him,_ I thought.

"_That would be a _letter opener_, you dolt,_" piped a voice from the back of my head, managing to sound condescending and exasperated all at once. God, I'd been hearing way too many disembodied voices lately.

_Go 'way_, I told it sleepily. '_M not crazy, so I don't hear voices. Only crazy people hear those._ Then a thought struck me. _Am I crazy? That'd be bad... I'd have to wear those white gowns like in mental hospitals. Dean'd never let me live it down._

For the record, I do realize how nonsensical I was at the time, and how unhinged I would have sounded to anyone listening, had I voiced my thoughts. As it was, it took a few beats for me to pause in my musings to understand what exactly I was holding in my hand. A letter opener. As close to a knife as it was possible to get and, in a nutshell, what could be my ticket out. I dropped it with a clatter and scooted back, shrinking away from it like it would abruptly rear up and attack.

I had never killed a human before, ever, not in all my years hunting with Dad and Dean. Sure, sometimes people died during a job, too often actually, but never by my own hand. It was always a possession gone wrong, or an attack that we couldn't get to in time. You couldn't save everyone. And while I had accepted this hard truth over time, it never made it any easier to bear, knowing that someone had died because we hadn't been fast enough. I couldn't throw all that away, right? My principals were all I had, the only things left to connect me to my family.

_But,_ that same voice interjected. _What if it gets you back to them? Would you rather have that connection or actually be with them?_

It had a point. I reached out and closed my fingers around the handle of the weapon, laboriously propping myself up to examine it more thoroughly. Like everything else in this house, it was a model for overabundance. The slim, silver blade was inlaid with a faint, looping design, and the pommel glimmered with encrusted blue and green stones. I tested the tip with my thumb and was unsurprised to find it blunter than a pair of safety scissors. It would be a painful and messy way to die.

I staggered clumsily to my feet and lurched over to the windows, muscles still uncoordinated from their recent frying. It was with a sigh of satisfaction that I pressed my forehead against the cool glass, resting my elbows on the frame to steady myself and gazing out over the forest and grounds.

The mist that had prevailed since morning had yet to lift, shrouding the tops of the trees in a ghostly film that left the uppermost branches like skeletal fingers grasping for an unreachable sun. Ephemeral tendrils snaked from the forest edge out onto the groomed lawn, slinking towards the house like curious children. Every so often they would take a quick peek over their shoulders, listening for the shrill reprimand that meant mother had spotted them exploring where they shouldn't and would soon herd them all inside with a flurry of scolding.

My eyes dropped to the letter opener in my hand. I couldn't actually kill a man, could I? Yes, he had hurt me, but he was _human_. This wasn't the same as some paranormal killer. It wasn't even in the same ballpark.

But then, what was the definition of a monster? Wasn't Cheverill just as bad, only in a different way? Worse even, because he had the choice not to harm anyone, yet he did so regardless? For so many hunts our target had been driven by base instinct and need, unable to stop themselves from killing because they physically could not survive without it as a source of prey, or because their minds had become so warped that they no longer saw why they shouldn't. How was Cheverill any better? I wondered about the other boys he had mentioned; how many had he simply used up, crippled beyond repair and discarded like broken, life-sized dolls? How many bodies had been buried out in the miles of spectral woods, left alone and forgotten with only the darkness and the worms to acknowledge their passing?

I shivered and huddled back from the windows, looking away from the pallid line of unending trunks. The mist was playing tricks with my eyes. As the trees faded in and out, they seemed to advance farther onto the lawn, crooked branches stretched towards me in covetous invitation. Waiting for Cheverill to tire of me and dispose of me like all the others. Waiting for the day that I too would be dumped in a shallow grave, and they would twine their roots around my stiffened corpse and never let me go.

My God, when had I become so morbid? I pressed my palms together, pinching the hilt of the letter opener between them, and feeling the uneven metal bite into my calloused skin. I wouldn't become Cheverill's boy toy, and I sure as hell wouldn't become another nameless victim rotting in an unmarked tomb. Determinedly, I cradled the letter opener and settled down to wait.

* * *

I had no idea how much time passed. The sun was sequestered behind layers of woolen clouds, and there was no clock in the room. (The absence of clocks bothered me to no end. Who didn't have a clock in their bedroom? I couldn't shake the thought that Cheverill had removed them expressly because of me, but there was no good reason for it that I could see. Then again, the guy _was_ crazy. Probably. Hopefully. I still hadn't decided.) At what I estimated was around noon, another tray of food was delivered by the mousy woman from yesterday, but for the most part I spent my time sitting by the windows, watching the undulating mist form and reform into distorted figures that wafted apart as soon as they were conceived. I must have changed my mind a thousand times, second thoughts playing a screwed up version of Ring-Around-the-Rosie through my head. One moment I would have grown a spine and resolved to carry through with my plan, the next my backbone would be lying in a melted puddle on the floor as I cursed myself for a coward while I began to put the letter opener away. Then I would think of my family, or Cheverill's groping touch, and the cycle would start all over again.

The light was starting to dim when I finally heard the clack of footsteps heading for my room. As the gloom of the mist receded grudgingly, twilight hurrying forward to take its place, I stood uncertainly from my perch by the windows and slipped over to lurk near the doorway, letter opener clutched in a death grip in my hand and indecision still paralyzing my mind.

"Will you be needing anything, Sir?" a woman asked from right outside the door, halting the footsteps just as they reached it. I wiped my sweaty palms on my too-tight jeans and wrapped my fingers firmly around the letter opener's hilt to subdue their quivering. I _would_ do this.

"No, I don't believe so." Cheverill's oily purr had me frozen in place, nails carving reddened crescent moons into the pads of my thumbs before I could shove the visceral fear aside and remaster myself. "Have no one disturb me for the remainder of the night unless I expressly request it." Well, now that was ideal. Hopefully nobody would intrude while I was stabbing Cheverill in the throat. I swallowed hard. Fuck, I couldn't do this.

"Of course, Sir. Have a good night." The _tap-tap_ of the woman's heels receded down the corridor. This was it. Oh God, I couldn't do it. I had to do it. I _couldn't _do it. I strove to keep my breathing level. The door knob was turning and my heart was pounding so loudly that I swear it was trying to warn the man of what I was about to do because Jesus _fuck_ since when could one muscle make more clamor than a firing squad and I _couldn't_ do this but I _had_ to because _Dean_ was out there looking for _me_ and what was I _thinking_ attacking a deranged _psychopath_ with nothing but a damn _letter opener_-

The door swung inward. Cheverill entered, a predatory grace to his stride as he pulled off his suit jacket and tossed it over his desk chair, looking around the room.

"Samuel?" he called, and though his back was to me I was certain his lips were drawn up in a bestial grin. It was as far as he got before my knees unlocked and I rushed him from behind, slamming into the space between his shoulder blades. My momentum carried us both to the floor and I drove my knee into the base of his spine to hold him down. My assumption that he would be too dazed to fight back crumbled to dust as he immediately surged up beneath me in a violent endeavor to throw me off. I seized his shoulders and clung on stubbornly, attempting to keep him still and ready the letter opener all at once. Cheverill bucked again, snarling, and reached around for his bracelet. I saw the movement out of the corner of my eye and lunged forward in a panic. I couldn't let him shock me, or this whole thing was for nothing. I had just forgotten that the fist I was lunging with was holding the letter opener as well.

The tip of the blade pierced Cheverill's hand with unexpected ease, burying itself with a thunk in the floor below and pinning him there like a bug on a display. For a split second we both ground to a halt, each of us equally shocked, and watched a bead of blood well up from where the metal was impaled just below his knuckles. Whoops. Then the pain seemed to register and Cheverill let out a bellow worthy of any rawhead, flinging me away as he thrashed like a dying piece of roadkill.

My senses came back to me and I scrambled to my feet. Somehow, I dodged Cheverill's flailing legs and aimed a kick at his head. He ducked and grabbed my ankle in his good hand, dragging it out from under me so that I crashed heavily onto his chest.

"You little bitch," he rasped, fingers closing around my throat just above the silver collar. I choked and scrabbled ineffectually at the back of his wrist. He was unbelievably strong, and he shook me as easily as a cat would a mouse, my head snapping back and forth. Blindly, I did the only thing I could think of, and felt for the hilt of the letter opener still embedded in his palm. The tips of my nails brushed metal. I clutched at the handle and have it a vicious twist, feeling bones grind against the blade. Cheverill released me with a roar and I wheezed in a greedy breath of precious air. My throat seemed too constricted, and I hastily blinked away the gray spots swimming in front of my eyes. I recovered just as Cheverill swung at me, barely getting my arm up in time to deflect it. The move left him unguarded, and I straddled him high on his chest, my shins pressed down on his biceps to hold him in place.

"What are you going to do then, Samuel?" he sneered, all unctuosity gone from his tone. In answer I yanked the letter opener from his hand, disregarding the gush of blood that spurted from the wound. Cheverill stared as I raised it in both fists. Then, as I was positioning it over the hollow of his throat, he inexplicably tossed his head back and started to laugh. It was harsh and ugly, a mocking sound that set my teeth on edge.

"You really think you can kill me?" Cheverill leered. I adjusted my grip and hovered the point an inch away from his adam's apple. One smooth thrust and I would be free. Cheverill cackled again. "You can't do it, can you, boy? I can see it in your face! You don't have the strength."

"Shut up," I growled. Cheverill's pulse was a delicate flutter above his collarbone and I rested the tip of the blade directly atop it. One stab and this would all be over. And yet I hesitated. I was about to _murder_ a human.

I was so distracted by my damned moral dilemma that my knees had slackened where they pinned Cheverill's shoulders to the ground. Cheverill sensed the vulnerability and rolled sideways with a powerful heave, dumping me gracelessly to the floor and knocking every scrap of air from my lungs as his uninjured fist plowed into my stomach. I curled away instinctively, but his arms were free now and he was reaching for his bracelet before I even recalled the danger.

The cuffs switched on, cutting off my desperate "no!" before it could pass my lips. I bent in on myself as the familiar pain filled me. The letter opener was plucked from my unresisting fingers, and I hardly registered it when my arms were roughly grabbed and the cuffs clipped together behind my back. A hard kick landed on my exposed ribs, almost lost amid the scorching acid chewing its way through each of my veins.

By the time I came back to myself I was whimpering quietly into my knees, curled into a ball as best I could with my arms tied behind me. To my surprise, wayward tears had tracked thick lines across my cheeks, clumping to my eyelashes as I attempted to rub them away with my shoulder. From somewhere close by, the sound of splashing water could be heard. I listened for a moment, trying to pinpoint the source, but before I could the sole of a boot stomped brutally into my chest

"You know what, Samuel?" Cheverill's eyes were wild. His heel ground against my sternum and I groaned. "I was thoroughly enjoying my day. Nothing operose to attend to, no vexatious people to manage. And I was savoring the knowledge that you were here, awaiting my return."

There were so many things wrong with his little monologue that I didn't even know where to begin. I could probably start with the fact that his pretentious manner was back. And that he made it sound like I was a lovesick puppy pining for him. My ass I was 'awaiting' anybody.

"But to ascertain that upon my ingression, you had the effrontery to assault me?" He leaned down and hauled me to my feet, his uninjured hand clamped like a vice around my upper arm. He didn't seem to care that the other was bleeding freely, droplets of red trickling from the gash and spotting the wood beneath him with sprinkles of gore. "You should have known that a nugatory little maggot like you wouldn't have possessed the fortitude to dispatch anyone, let alone myself."

My God, even his insults sounded like... well, like that. "Do you talk like a rejected Dracula extra because you're overcompensating?" I asked. "Or because you know that kidnapping and black market deals are the only way you can get laid?"

Cheverill's eyes blazed. "You won't learn, will you?" he spat, dampening my face with spittle. He wound his bloody hand ruthlessly through my hair and propelled me towards the bathroom, hissing in my ear, "you've given me no choice but to punish you for this. It could have been easily prevented, but you just wouldn't acquiesce." Somehow, I didn't think he was too torn up over it.

The gush of water grew louder as he shoved me into the bathroom and threw me to the floor. I crashed to the tiles, arms useless to break my fall, and watched dazedly as Cheverill bent over the massive bathtub on the far wall. There was a squeak and the sounds of water stopped.

"What're you doin'?" I slurred as Cheverill crouched down and pulled me to my knees before the tub. Its blunt rim dug into my stomach, the rippling water innocently reflecting my wary image as I gazed into it.

Cheverill stroked my bangs out of my eyes and smiled sadly, the fury from seconds ago gone without a trace. "I'm sorry Samuel, but you brought this on yourself. After this, perhaps you'll begin to listen to me." His contrite tone was as false as his expression. It wasn't hard to see that he was relishing every moment of this. His fingers combed tenderly through my hair, almost comforting, until they suddenly clenched in the overlong strands and dunked my head under the icy water.

Taken off guard, I spluttered and yelped, losing about half the air I had managed to gulp down. Cheverill's hold was stringent and unwavering, the edge of the tub now a sharp pain grating into my ribs. I jerked against his grip, water sloshing over my chest and splattering onto the floor, but my fettered arms could do nothing to knock him away. A dull burn was starting in my chest. I needed air, but Cheverill gave no sign of relenting anytime soon. I struggled madly, my bare feet sliding across the sopping tiles with no traction to support me. The burn was fast becoming an unbearable pressure in my lungs and throat and try as I might, I couldn't hold my breath any longer. A host of bubbles clouded around my mouth and nose just before I sucked in a froth of water and started to choke. _He's going to let me drown,_ I thought, terrified. Water was filling my lungs even as my frantic struggling weakened.

Then I was breathing in air, sweet, lovely air, coughing and hacking up streams of water while Cheverill held my head above the surface of the tub, smoothing my dripping hair away from my face and leaving bloody streaks across my skin. "Are you going to behave yet, Samuel?" he questioned. It was all the warning I received before he plunged me back into the water.

He left me for longer this time, long enough that my vision was starting to gray when he finally pulled me out. He didn't say anything, only let me regain some of my breath while he feathered kisses down the side of my temple and over my jaw. "Are you going to behave?" he asked again, once I was done spitting up water.

"You think you're scaring me?" I laughed, my voice a wrecked, gravelly rasp. Okay, maybe he was, a little. Not that I was going to let him know. "You're going to have to do better than that."

Cheverill's answering smile was razor-tipped. "If you insist, dear boy, I'll gladly rise to the challenge. In fact, I'm just getting started."

I jerked against his hand as he lowered me back in, my cutting retort swallowed by the water. And I really had thought it couldn't have been worse than it was. Of course, I probably shouldn't have goaded him like that either, but I've always had a problem with authority. And people drowning me for fun.

He let me squirm for a minute or so, keeping my head submerged and allowing the ache to grow in my chest. Then he made good on his threat and turned on my cuffs. I honestly don't remember much of what directly followed. The water amplified the electric shocks until I was sure my brain would sizzle to a crisp inside my skull and after awhile, the world blurred into nothing more than a haze of water and pain. I don't know how many times Cheverill dunked me either. I have a vague recollection of being lifted from the water and croaking, "stop, please... Please no more..." and Cheverill deliberating for an agonizing moment, finally shaking his head and jeering, "you're going to have to do better than that, Samuel."

* * *

When I next became fully aware of my surroundings, I was lying facedown, soft carpet rubbing against my cheek. My arms were still bound behind my back and my throat felt like it had been stuffed with shards of broken glass. I groaned unconsciously, trying to catalogue all the twinges my body was complaining about.

"Excellent, you're awake!" Cheverill's voice came from somewhere to my left, infuriatingly chipper. "I was about to rouse you personally if you took much longer. I even had time to summon one of my personnel to bandage the injury you paid me while you were quiescent."

_Oh God, someone help me,_ I thought, hunching in on myself. _Dean, where are you?_

There was the sound of a drawer opening, then the clink of metal as Cheverill rummaged through its contents. "Ah, here we are," he said, satisfied, and I cautiously peeked out from under my lashes. I was lying in front of the plush couch of the sitting area, marble table to my back, with the bank of windows making up the wall over my head. All I could see of Cheverill were his shoes and half of one ankle through the gap between the couch and the floor. "This will do nicely," he continued, and his feet disappeared, only for the man himself to step around the couch and squat down next to my head.

"Now, Samuel," he began, reminding me of Dad when he was gearing up for a lecture. "For what we're going to engage in next, you will need to pay close attention. I'll expect you to become highly proficient at it within the next few weeks." He turned me over onto my back and held up what appeared to be a black ring with two straps coming off either side. Looking closer, I saw four thin metal rods also protruding off the ring, bent like the legs of a spider.

"Whatever the hell you're planning to do with that-" I husked, voice raw from all the water I had inhaled. Cheverill cut me off before I could finish, grabbing my jaw and pressing hard on the pressure points behind it until it was forced to open. I made an unintelligible noise of protest and attempted to twist away, but he jammed a knee into my stomach and pinned me beneath him.

"Shh, shh," he crooned, and slipped the bizarre ring object into my open mouth. It lodged itself just behind my front teeth, stretching my jaw uncomfortably wide, with two of the metal rods pressing against the roof of my mouth and the other two slotting in under my tongue. Furiously, I shook my head from side to side, prying at it with my tongue to dislodge it.

"I'll be having none of that, Samuel," Cheverill admonished. He released my chin and reached around to buckle the two straps behind my head, securing the device firmly in place. As he pulled back he gave my cheek an endearing pat with his bandaged hand. I felt a spike of vicious pleasure at the sight; I hoped it hurt like a bitch. "I know you resent it for the moment," Cheverill went on, "but I assure you that you'll soon grow accustomed to wearing it. Moreover, if you comport yourself laudably, I'll only stipulate its use for the first few sessions to expedite your learning."

I glared, prevented from replying by the gag. The edges of the ring were cutting into the soft flesh of my gums, and while I could still breathe through the hole in the center, the position it forced my jaw to take made it impossible to swallow normally. Lines of drool were gathering at the corners of my mouth and had begun to dribble down my chin. Cheverill's lip twitched in amusement as he lifted a hand and thumbed one of the trails away.

"You are going to feel so good, Samuel," he murmured, getting to his feet and unclasping his belt, eyes sparkling with anticipation. "Let's see if your tongue is proficient at anything other than boorish vituperation."

My eyes widened and I wrenched myself away from him, straining at the fastenings clipping my cuffs together. I didn't know what the hell 'vituperation' meant (and _seriously_, who talked like that? Someone needed to tell this guy that throwing big words into his sentences didn't make him sound intelligent), but I would have had to be pretty thick not to realize what Cheverill was about to do. Giving a blowjob wasn't something I had ever imagined myself doing, and certainly not to some guy at least twelve years my senior with my hands tied behind my back and a sex toy holding my mouth open and ready.

Cheverill finished unbuttoning his pants and pulled himself out, already half hard and leaking. I kicked out at him, horrified and disgusted, as he maneuvered me to kneel before the couch, ignoring my grunts and repeated attempts to break free. Cheverill sat in front of me, exposed crotch mere inches from my face. I balked and almost made it to my feet before his hand clamped punishingly down on my shoulder and shoved me back to my knees.

"Shh, Samuel, shh," he soothed, threading his fingers the hair at the base of my skull. "I won't hurt you. Just relax, that's it."

Fuck that. I squirmed to the side, thrashing, as he drew me closer with unrelenting hands. My breath was coming in short, petrified gasps that whistled through the gag like muted screams.

"Samuel," Cheverill chided, yanking my to head face him. "Enough with this offensive behavior. I told you to relax, and I expect you to comply." I snarled, and he released my shoulder to cuff me impatiently across the side of my face. "I said enough," he snapped, giving me a good shake to punctuate his words. I was too disoriented to lean away as he guided my head down and pushed the head of his cock through the ring and into my mouth. _That_ brought me around. I jolted and bucked in his grasp, but both of his hands were anchored unshakably in my scalp and I wasn't going anywhere soon.

Cheverill slithered in another inch, the taste of salt and urine bleeding across my tongue and bringing back the urge to vomit all over again. The loose skin on the underside of his dick caught nauseatingly on the points of my teeth and I can honestly say that I had never wanted to bite down on anything as much as I did then. His length was hot and throbbing, beads of precum rolling continually from the tip until I could taste nothing else.

"Mmm, you're so pretty like this, Samuel," Cheverill moaned, bumping against the back of my throat as I retched and coughed. "Taking me like the good little pet you are." He tapped the strap holding the ring in my mouth and smiled. "Soon you won't even need this, once you've lost this rebellious streak of yours. Can't wait to feel your pretty lips wrapped around me." He nudged my gag reflex again, grinning at the way I convulsed involuntarily.

Seeming to tire of the slow pace, he thrust forward in earnest, burying himself deep in my throat. I choked, muscles flexing around the intrusion, trying to push it out and breath all at once. Cheverill let out a blissful whine and pulled back, slamming back in over and over while his hands clenched in my hair and satisfied grunts spilled from his lips. His cock was rock hard in my mouth and he hit my gag reflex with every thrust, making my eyes water uncontrollably. How the hell did people _like_ giving these? I couldn't breath, and my windpipe, already abused from all the water forced down it, felt like it was on the verge of tearing.

When Cheverill finally shot his load down my throat, I was faint and dizzy from lack of air. Come filled my mouth and seeped from around the gag, dripping down my chin and onto my chest. At least it had been quick. Cheverill left his softening member where it was, resting on my tongue like a slug as he stroked my hair comfortingly and commanded, "now clean me up Samuel, like a good boy."

I stiffened, wondering how I could tell him to go fuck himself without speaking. If he wanted to wash off he could damn well do it himself. It wasn't like he could shock me with his dick in my mouth, not unless he wanted to share in the experience.

When I mulishly refused to move, Cheverill sighed. "Really Samuel, I would have thought you'd have learned. Fussing like this will gain you nothing." He bent forward and snagged the wire clipping my cuffs together. My breath hitched as he gave it a slight tug, stretching my arms up towards my head. "Have you ever had your shoulder dislocated?" he asked conversationally. I had, once before when a particularly angry spirit had chucked me through a window. Thankfully, the window hadn't been very high, but I could still remember the white knife of pain that came as I felt the bone pop out of joint.

Cheverill lifted my hands higher. I bit down around the gag as my shoulders strained tautly, pulled to the brink of their natural range. "I can desist, if you would prefer," he offered, rolling his hips suggestively. I clamped down on a mewl of pain and remained where I was, defiance written on every line of my body. Cheverill shrugged. "As you wish." I let out an agonized scream as he slowly, slowly raised my arms over my head, my shoulders grating sickeningly against the joint as they ripped out of their sockets. Cheverill let my arms drop back behind me, a moan coming from behind the gag as my tearing ligaments shifted. I squeezed my eyes shut, breathing hard and trying not to focus on the way my arms dangled limply, the burden of their own weight stretching the distorted muscles even further.

"So, Samuel," Cheverill placed both hands on my right shoulder. "Have I persuaded you yet?" With a sharp jerk, he snapped the bone back into place. He did the same with my other side, shushing me consolingly as I cried out and cringed away. "Clean me, Samuel," he ordered again, cupping my cheek.

I wouldn't do it, I _wouldn't_. I was stronger than this. I shook my head weakly. Cheverill's eyes flashed, and the next moment, my shoulders had separated so fast that I almost didn't realize where the cracking noise was coming from. Then the pain set in. I howled, jaw clenching around the gag as my already damaged tendons buckled. Sweat broke out on my forehead as I shivered, sobbing around Cheverill and his gag.

Calmly, Cheverill clicked each arm into its socket, keeping me upright when I sagged against him. "Shall I continue?" he offered, sweeping my damp hair from my eyes. I let out a strangled whimper. No. I wouldn't do it. He couldn't make me. I clung to that as he hooked the wire between his fingers and brought my hands up over my head.

This time, there was noticeably less resistance to the scrape of my shoulders sliding out of place. Maybe my tendons had all been severed already. It didn't seem likely, but hell, it certainly _felt_ like it. "Come, Samuel," Cheverill coaxed. Bone rasped on bone as he fit the joints together. "I can do this all night if needed."

I closed my eyes, defeated. My shoulders were on fire, and I had no doubt that he was fully prepared to sit there, popping them in and out, until I gave him what he wanted. If it had been Dean here, he probably would've shot Cheverill his arrogant grin and told him to stick his offer up his ass. But Dean wasn't stupid enough to get himself in this situation, and it wasn't him kneeling here with his mouth stuffed with someone else's cock. Just me. And I was no Dean.

Tentatively, I licked at the underside of Cheverill's shaft, lapping at the loose skin until all traces of semen had gone. I kept my eyes shut. I didn't want to see the victorious expression he was no doubt directing at me, and they stayed closed as he pulled out and tucked himself back into his pants. A finger brushed along my cheek and I flinched back, but he only reached around to unbuckle the gag and gently remove it from my face. I opened and closed my jaw, refusing to focus on how it ached insistently. The musky flavor of come was still cloying on my tongue; I wondered if I'd ever be able to forget it.

With one hand, Cheverill reached down and scooped a dollop of come onto his fingers. "In the future," he said, bringing the sticky substance to my lips, "you will swallow everything without needing me to feed it to you." I gritted my teeth. My dignity wasn't so far gone that I would suck his own spunk from his hand like a dog. "Samuel," Cheverill warned as I hesitated, lightly pressing his fingers into the seam of my right shoulder. I chewed on my bottom lip. I could eat it willingly and hate myself, or he would keep dislocating my shoulders until I did, for which I would hate myself anyway. I couldn't win.

I opened my mouth, feeling something splinter in my chest as I carefully licked his fingers clean. When I was done Cheverill petted my hair, rumbling "that's my good boy, Samuel. Such a good boy." I turned my face away, shame burning in my stomach.

Cheverill stood and laid the gag on the table. "I'm going to shower," he told me. "Then maybe we'll see about dinner, if that's agreeable." I didn't answer. I knew he wasn't actually asking for my approval. He turned and vanished into the bathroom, closing the door behind him with a hollow _snik_.

I remained where I was, staring blindly at the floor as I listened to the squeak and hiss of the shower starting up. Numbly, I sat back and attempted to scrape off the drying spit and semen from my chin with my bare shoulder. Cheverill hadn't bothered to free my hands, and my arms were beginning to cramp at the unnatural stretch, nevermind the burning in my shoulders. After a moment I rocked back onto my feet and went over to the windows, watching the nighttime shadows gambol aimlessly through the sinister trees. The lights from the house spilled out over the grounds, the only illumination in a sea of dark where neither the stars nor moon presided. Ominous clouds grumbled overhead, heralding the oncoming rain. _Maybe we're in Rhode Island_, I thought, leaning against the chilled glass. _It always seemed to be raining when we drove through there. Or Michigan, that'd make sense too._ I huffed contemptuously. _Hell, I could be outside of Seattle for all I know._ I swiped my tongue over my lips, remnants of sweat and come clinging to my skin. I remembered the weight of his hands in my hair, the slimy length of his dick forcing its way down my throat, the wet rush of heat as he climaxed.

Unbidden, my thoughts jumped to Dad and Dean. What would they do, once they discovered what I had done? I could imagine the look of repulsion Dean would give me, the disappointment in Dad's eyes as he turned away. I was dirty, used, and it would only be a matter of time for them to realize it. I banged my head against the window once, twice, denying the tears that begged to fall. I had sworn I wouldn't cry again. I bit my tongue to stifle a sob and asked myself, for the first time, whether it would be better if my family never found me at all.

* * *

Just on the off chance anyone still wants to review, here are my suggested questions! I'm kinda a review whore, if you hadn't noticed...

1) How is Cheverill's character? If you would like to punch him in the face, that's a good sign, so let me know if you do!

2) How are Sam's reactions to all of this? If you think they should be different, what would you change?

3) What was your favorite part of the chapter and/or was it too violent? Too graphic?

Thanks for your guys' everlasting patience, and to everyone who reviewed!


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